


pick a direction and walk

by mutalune



Category: Good Omens, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale becomes a writer, Codependency, Crowley loses his powers, Crowley panics, Extremely Bad Poetry, F/F, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Apocalypse, Self Confidence Issues, U-Haul lesbians, aziraphale sells books, beach scene!!!, dagon loves to bother crowley, discussion of purposelessness, i cannot stress the bad poetry part of this enough tbh, in the end thought:, just a lotta stress and anxiety tbh, michael is Troubled, not really angsty now that i wrote that it's just a lot of "oh no what now", the pining is for the boys, the u-haul lesbians are the lovely ladies of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22335628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutalune/pseuds/mutalune
Summary: “Are you drunk?” Aziraphale asked incredulously after Crowley pulled them back into the correct lane. “What has gotten into you today?”“Do you want to drive?” Crowley snapped, harsher than Aziraphale thought the situation called for. “No? Then stop being so - so judgy!”Aziraphale gasped. “Judgy!”“Yes! Judgy! The six-thousand-year-old who hasn’t bothered to learn how to use a toaster doesn’t get to criticize my driving!”
Relationships: Aziraphale & Michael (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Dagon (Good Omens), Dagon/Michael (Good Omens)
Comments: 92
Kudos: 199
Collections: Amazing Good Omens, Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello all!!!! at long last - posting my entry for the Good Omens Big Bang (goodomensbigbang.tumblr.com). it's been a long number of months, but here we are~!!! i'm so excited to share this with everyone. i'll be posting over the course of this week and next, with the last chapter being posted on january 30th~ this is a bit of a chunky fic, so prepare yourselves for a long-ish ride <3 
> 
> i'd like to thank **dazebras** , my beta for this event, for all of their help!!! this would've been a much messier fic without their watchful eye. i'd go so far as to say that i've become a much better writer seeing what vic had to say about everything and i'm extremely (EXTREMELY) grateful <3 (go look at their stuff [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazebras/works)!!!) 
> 
> and, of course, thanks to my artistic partner for this event: **a-boy-called-micah**!!! i'm very excited for micah's contribution which will be embedded later in the fic <3 i'm so glad to have gotten to work with him and his work!!! (go see his stuff [here](https://a-boy-called-micah.tumblr.com)!!!) 
> 
> special shoutouts go to: OneOfWebs who was sort of my unofficial story coach on this, DiminishingReturns for emotional support and poetry support, and curtaincall & imperiousheiress for emotional support throughout the entire bang. i don't think i would've kept writing if i hadn't had this team of talented writers behind me supporting me the entire way <3 
> 
> i won't hold you up any longer - thanks for reading, and i hope you enjoy this at least half as much as i enjoyed writing it~!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley watches Aziraphale lock up, and he wonders if this is what a piece of driftwood feels like as it floats away from the rest of a wreck. 

The bookshop, when Crowley walks in, is clean. 

He slams the door shut immediately. Then he takes a step back to check that he walked into the right building. The “A.Z. Fell & Co.” sign is exactly where it should be - perhaps a bit shinier than its been in past years, and perhaps a little more eye-catching. It almost looks welcoming. 

The Bentley’s parked in the same spot as it always is, so Crowley doesn’t think he that he got in a wreck on the way over. It wouldn’t be the first time he didn’t notice his discorporation right away, though, so he checks himself in the reflection of one of the Bentley’s windows just to be sure. 

“Seems to all be there,” he says out loud, poking at himself. Bony ribs are in place, as are his hips and the weird wart on his ring finger that showed up in the sixteenth century and never went away. “From what I can tell, at least. Probably fine.” He prods at himself a few more times, spins in place for extra assurance, then turns back to the shop. 

For the first time in centuries, he can see into the shop through the windows. 

When Aziraphale first opened the store, Crowley had to wipe and scrub to peek inside. He remembers his sleeve somehow turning blacker from doing so and having to force his body to stop breathing so he didn’t inadvertently swallow two pounds’ worth of soot. As he tried to rub an opening for him to peer through, the dirt spread like butter over warm bread and undid his work as quickly as he enacted it, thus demonstrating Aziraphale’s reluctance to allow anyone a comfortable experience at his shop. 

This is to say that Crowley has never, once, been able to see through Aziraphale’s windows. The shop may as well be a black box inside of a potato sack that’s been buried underground, for all of the sun the inside receives. Crowley is almost certain that he and Aziraphale have lost days when drinking in the back room due to the lack of natural light to indicate the passage of time. [1]

Crowley lets out a, “What the…” involuntarily and steps forward to get a closer look - this time so close that his breath fogs up the glass. 

Sure enough, the inside is _clean_. The books all appear to be stacked in a recognizable order rather than lying in stacks on the floor or haphazardly lurching out of shelves. The floor is clear and shining, Aziraphale’s desk is tidy and free of mugs half-full with cold cocoa, and the strange ooze that leaked out of the east-side wall is nowhere to be found. 

No cobwebs, either, and Crowley absentmindedly thinks that he might feel bad for the family of spiders that had created those. They must’ve been living there since Aziraphale bought the place. Little buggers had worked hard on their masterpiece, passing the responsibility down from spider generation to spider generation. The current ones are nowhere to be found and must have been evicted. 

Nothing appears to be missing - everything has merely been tidied and organized, from what he can tell. It’s all still in one piece. He can’t see any fires nor a flood of water nor any sign of something dangerous. The only things missing are the mess and Aziraphale himself. 

The lack of mess is concerning, but it’s the last bit that he doesn’t feel great about. The “Aziraphale not being in sight” thing. 

He could, logically, recognize that everything is almost definitely fine. Aziraphale must’ve felt like a bit of a change - maybe post-Apocalyptic Aziraphale had turned into a neat freak. Seems like a weird coping mechanism in Crowley’s opinion, but it could be worse. He’s heard of stress-cleaning before. 

The illogical, emotional, and still-rather-rattled side of him, shuts down any attempts he has at rationalizing this sudden change logically. It instead jumps to, “Something absolutely horrible has happened and Aziraphale might be on fire in there so. I dunno. Might want to do something about that, mate.” 

Crowley does.

He flings the doors open and barges in, yelling, “Oi, Aziraphale!” repeatedly. He sprints through the shop, checking aisles for a glimpse of blond hair and progressively losing more of his grip on rationality as each one is empty of anything except books. He checks underneath Aziraphale’s desk. Having caught him hiding from customers there more times than Aziraphale would admit to, it’s a reasonable place for him to try; though, it ends up as fruitless as the rest of his efforts. 

He swallows back the tang of bile that’s lying in the back of his throat and forces himself to call out, “Aziraphale, where are you? Come on - fuck. Aziraphale!” 

“Oh! Crowley, I’ll be out in just a minute!” 

The voice comes from - well, Crowley would be hard-pressed to explain what direction. If he didn’t know that the upper floor was packed to the brim with books - to the point that Aziraphale hasn’t actually used the stairs within the bookshop for at least a decade with the way stacks and stacks of tomes spilled out of the storage they’d been allocated - he’d say it came from upstairs. He had, in the past, tried to talk Aziraphale into miracling the second floor into something inhabitable so their drinking binges would be less likely to wreak havoc on his merchandise with little success. Aziraphale had always been steadfast in denying any need, and the second floor has remained unusable for anything except storage since. 

He must not have been as against the idea as Crowley thought, seeing as he comes strolling down an extravagant, clear staircase that’s replaced the novel-covered steps that had been there the week before. 

For a few moments, Crowley can’t think past the rush of relief. Aziraphale is safe and well. He didn’t disappear or get kidnapped or, worst of all, _leave_. Whatever horrific things could’ve happened, they didn’t. There’s no sign of Heaven coming to drag Aziraphale back. Aziraphale hasn’t left. 

Crowley’s shoulders slump against his will. 

As soon as he relaxes, he decides not to linger on his overreaction any longer. He shoves it into a metaphorical box, shoves the box under a metaphorical bed, and he locks the metaphorical room that the metaphorical bed sits in with a metaphorical skeleton key that he metaphorically throws out a window. 

Or something like that. Whatever. 

With that mess dealt with, he actually processes what he’s looking at - namely, what appears to be a new and improved Aziraphale. He whistles and says, “Well, well, well. Look at you! All dolled up and brand spanking new! What’s the occasion, angel?” 

“Oh this?” Aziraphale demurs. He leans against the banister as if he hadn’t planned this entire unveiling [2] and smiles shyly. His fiddles with the collar of his shirt - something modern, a pale blue button down with a cream sweater vest atop a pair of black trousers. Crowley, who has only seen Aziraphale wear black on rare occasions, can’t say it looks abhorrent. Wouldn’t dream of it, in fact. “I just - well, you know. It seemed like a good time to make a change. I’m growing rather fond of this time period now, so I may as well give a more modern look a try.” 

“Yeah?” Crowley says, distracted. He looks phenomenal, really. Black slacks, black shoes, a black belt, and the piece de resistance: a black bow tie. It’s all still very _Aziraphale_ , with the blue shirt rather unfairly matching his eyes, but it’s the first time since the 1920’s he’s actually matched the current era and been (relatively) on-trend. 

“Do you like it?” 

Crowley, were he braver, would say _: You look like a vision. You always do, but right now you’re wearing one of my colors and I don’t think I could love you more. You’re beautiful. You’re perfect. I adore you._

Or, well, something along those lines. Maybe not quite so sappy, but the general gist of it would be there. 

Instead, he grins and says, “Sure do - About time you gave the twenty-first century a go. This why your shop’s all prettied up too? Didn’t want any dust getting on your new threads?”

Aziraphale straightens from his pose and says, “Ah, no. That would be due to a different endeavor of mine.” 

When he doesn’t elaborate, Crowley waves his hands and says, “And? That endeavor would be…?” 

“Well. You see.” He links his hands together behind his back and rolls up onto the balls of his feet, the way he does when he doesn’t really want to elaborate but knows it’s futile to beat around the bush. “I think it might be time to…to start actually selling some books.” 

Crowley blinks. 

Aziraphale’s face twists into a strange mixture of a smile and a grimace. “I know. Strange, isn’t it?” 

“You love your books, though.” 

“I do! And I certainly won’t be selling all of them, or even most of them. All of my important ones are being kept upstairs now - “ 

“You didn’t used to have space up there - It used to be all books.” 

“Yes, I know. I cleared space out now, though!” He brightens suddenly. “I didn’t realize how cozy bedrooms could be, and I have a kitchen now as well. It’s rather exciting. And! It’s also the perfect place to keep my more precious books. I found these beautiful shelves at a rummage sale the other day - beautiful cherry wood, and they reach all the way up to my ceilings - and I rather - “ 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Crowley interrupts, feeling more lost than he has since he took a surprise nose dive into Hell all those millennia ago. “I’m still stuck on - you _want_ to sell books? The books you’ve guarded like a vicious dragon for literal centuries? _Those_ books?” 

“Some of those books,” Aziraphale corrects. “Not all of them.” 

Bewildered, Crowley asks, “Okay, but. Why?” He scratches his head and continues with, “Why now? This is - You get that I’m currently wondering if someone else has replaced you with an eerily similar Aziraphale look-alike, right?” 

He presses his lips together, and Crowley doesn’t have to see his hands to know that he’s wringing them. Tightening and loosening his grip over and over with such force that if he were a human, Aziraphale’s hands would be rubbed raw after a few minutes. It’s a gesture that habitually follows any sort of inquiry directed towards Aziraphale, who hates answering questions as much as he hates asking them. 

Normally, Crowley would try to cut him some slack, but normally, Crowley isn’t in the middle of the fucking Twilight Zone. 

Aziraphale, after a few more seconds of silent hand-wringing, says weakly, “I know it seems strange. But really, I have more books than I could conceivably read in a century, and I have multiple copies of the same book, which is excessive when they don’t differ in any significant way.” 

“You’ve never cared about that before.” Crowley is becoming more concerned that this is due to some kind of pressure or distress from an outside source, seeing as Aziraphale is starting to visibly carry more and more tension in his shoulders. “You used to pride yourself on having a collection like that. All vast and wondrous and excessive, y’know?” 

“Well, I might’ve thought that having a legitimate, non-miracled form of income would be beneficial,” he finally admits. “It’s getting quite difficult for me to keep up with the technological advances behind payment and banking these days, so I hardly know where to start miracling some days. It’s inconvenient to have to miracle all of the bills, isn’t it?” 

Crowley doesn’t know where to begin crafting a response to a problem that he never thought was a problem or had thought could _be_ a problem. 

He scrubs a hand over his face before saying, carefully, “You don’t have to sell your books for that. Especially not when they mean so much to you. If you’re worried, I have other investments that we can put some more effort into. We have plenty of other options; though, I’m not sure why you’re worried about money all of a sudden.” 

“You’re as kind as ever, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders, and he smiles at Crowley warmly. “I suppose in the wake of the world nearly ending, the material items - I’m less attached to them, now. There’s still ones that I would rather cut my own hand off than allow someone to walk off with, of course.” 

“Of course,” Crowley agrees, as if that’s a reasonable reaction from someone who just said they were getting less attached to material items. He does honestly think that it’s a more reasonable impulse than Aziraphale suddenly wanting to use his bookshop for its intended purpose. 

“But the rest - I think it would do me good to cut down on the clutter. It’ll leave more space for - and you know that I enjoy working the shop.”

“To be honest, I thought most of the enjoyment came from scaring people off,” Crowley admits. He rubs a hand around the back of his neck, feeling strange. The floor underneath him feels wobbly, and it’s suddenly hard for him to keep his balance. He has to lock his knees before he can say, “It just - It seems sudden. The clothes, the cleaning, the selling - ” 

“Almost having the world end is quite the motivator,” Aziraphale says as if he’s agreeing with Crowley. “Now enough about this. It’s lunch time, isn’t it?” 

“Er, yeah. Yeah. Let’s go.” 

Crowley watches Aziraphale lock up, and he wonders if this is what a piece of driftwood feels like as it floats away from the rest of a wreck. 

* * *

Footnotes: 

1And what’s a few days between immortals, really? How many times have they lost track of time while chatting, only to realize that a week has passed? [return to text]

  
2They both know he choreographed the entire thing, but Aziraphale does love a production. Crowley would never dream of taking that away from him. [return to text]


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A garden has a reason - it either produces food or creates a biome for other creatures to live and thrive in. Crowley’s green room, though decorative on the surface, is grown for his pleasure, entertainment, and catharsis. Plants have purpose. 

For more years than he cares to count, Crowley’s garden has flourished. Green, luscious leaves all around, and thick, strong stalks. The green room has been one of the most verdant places on Earth [3] since he started caring for it. At any point, he could’ve easily started selling tickets to let humans walk through to “ooh” and “ahh” over the damn thing, and he would’ve made more money than he could with a miracle. 

Would be a damn sight more profitable than Aziraphale’s “I’ll start actually selling books - well, not that one, or that one, but maybe some of these, and that one” plan, at the very least. 

Where Aziraphale takes (or, well, used to take) pride in running customers off by cultivating a well-loved but obscenely disgusting atmosphere, Crowley takes pride in knowing that his garden is astonishingly, intimidatingly beautiful. 

And behind Crowley’s criticism and threats, he really does enjoy gardening. He likes running his hands along the leaves and feeling proud, he likes shoving his hands into the dirt to dig out pests and settle roots in, and most of all, he likes the smell of fresh earth and greenery. It’s cathartic in a way that he hasn’t found a substitute for, and while there’s nothing like a good ol’ think in the shower, he thinks some of his best thoughts while digging through soil. 

Part of his enjoyment may be due to a somewhat childish rebellion - Before his Fall, Crowley had been tasked with creating a number of star systems and other celestial objects, but he hadn’t been allowed to dip his hands into any of the preparations for Earth and humanity. God said everyone had their tasks, and Crowley’s were up, up, up. Keep your eyes forward, now, don’t mind the green thing down there. Steady on. 

And stars are beautiful, sure, and it had seemed like an important task at the time. Compared to how humble Earth was going to be, galaxies and nebulae had a pompous kind of glory attached to them. Though angels were supposedly above envy and petty emotions like it, there were more than a few who looked at Crowley strangely when he would return from his duties. Crowley had been proud of his work, at first. 

Millennia down the line, though, Crowley sometimes looks up at the sky and thinks, “Well, what the fuck use are you? Standing up there, looking all pretty - what do you do? A tomato plant does more; It nourishes and grows and dies. Soil, grass, trees, fruit - they all have a purpose. They do things. A single seed has more potential than every star put together. What’s the point of you?”

A garden has a reason - it either produces food or creates a biome for other creatures to live and thrive in. Crowley’s green room, though decorative on the surface, is grown for his pleasure, entertainment, and catharsis. Plants have purpose. 

Crowley may not act like it, but he likes plants. And he likes _his_ plants, no matter what he tells them or threatens them with. 

This makes it all the more devastating when, after lunch and a round of drinks, he walks into a room full of decay and rot. 

The floor is littered with brown and yellow leaves, and most of the plants are no longer standing. Those that are have shriveled and look as if they could be knocked over by thinking loudly in their direction. Flies [4] buzz all around, and there’s a general scent of putridity. Crowley slowly reaches out to one of his snake plants, and it wilts before his eyes, as if willfully avoiding his touch. The monstera, his favorites if he had to pick, are drooping and lifeless. When he steps forward, a branch from what must be his jade plant crunches underfoot. 

It makes for a pitiful sight. 

This, in turn, enrages Crowley. 

“What. Is. Thisss.” He can’t bring himself to be embarrassed by the hiss when he can feel his face turning red from fury. “You dare - You think - Who do you think you are?” He stalks through and searches for any plant that isn’t fully dead. Kicking pots as he walks by, knocking over the most pathetic wrecks, snarling at each and every leafless branch, Crowley storms and snarls and puffs out angry, hard breaths. 

Each row of his green room is full of death. A pot full of maggots and fungus here, a pile of dry, nutrientless soil there. Even his shears, gleaming and shined to perfection, have rusted over in his absence. They squeal alarmingly when he punts them across the room. 

Crowley picks up one of the pots that, though full of pests and dead, dry stalks, has a tiny smidge of green left. A single oval leaf waves at him mockingly, and he proceeds to lay into it. “You aren’t allowed to be dead! I didn’t - Who exactly do you think you are? Who do you think you are to defy me? I’ve nurtured you - _grown_ you - watered and fed you. I helped you grow up strong, and THIS is how you repay me? THIS is what you do?” 

The leaf continues to wave, so much so that it detaches ever-so-lightly and floats to the bottom of the pot. Crowley picks it up and snarls, “You disobedient BRAT!” 

The pot joins the shears on the opposite end of the room, exploding once it hits the wall. 

Crowley makes a token effort at regaining control. It’s infuriating, of course, but it’s not as if he can’t grow more or start a new garden. He and Aziraphale saved the world[5], so there’s plenty of time and Earth to go around for him to regrow. Plus, in theory, he wouldn’t mind a new project. If he had been asked a few weeks ago, he honestly might have considered starting the garden from scratch just for something to keep him busy. 

Here, though - now, though - something about it makes him feel nauseous in the worst ways. It makes his lips tremble and his spine curl, and that horrifically hopeless feeling is creeping up and breathing down his neck. 

So Crowley, instead of lingering on how horrible he feels, decides, “Fuck that.” Rage is much easier to work with, and it has much clearer desires: blood and death.

Seeing as plants don’t have blood and they’re already dead, he mostly just gets a lot of spilled dirt instead. Throwing pots around, stomping on the remains, roaring at the few bits of green have managed to survive - it’s not nearly as satisfying as he wants it to be. 

At the end, the room is a mess. It still smells like rot, but now it’s rancid with Crowley’s own anger that’s tinged with the bitter scent of fear. 

He doesn’t pant only because he doesn’t want the pitiful remains thinking they could cause him to exert any but the barest of efforts. He runs a hand through his hair to slick it back, straightens his coat, and forcibly releases the tension that has gathered in his jaw. 

Coolly, as if he had planned this wreckage from the moment he walked in, he says, “You asked for this, you know.” 

With that, he storms out. The door slams shut behind him, hiding the shameful disappointments. 

“Could go see Aziraphale,” he muses on his way to the kitchen. “See how the… _book-selling_ is going.” Even with only himself as an audience, he can’t refrain from projecting his disgust with the whole matter. 

Honestly. Aziraphale spent centuries collecting as much as his beautifully greedy paws could carry, and then as much as his shop could carry, and then he collected more. And out of nowhere - Poof. Done. Like all of the years have meant nothing all along and can be tossed into a “For Sale” bin at a pawn shop to pick up a quick buck or two. 

The books, he means. Like the books can be sold and given away. Out of sight, out of mind at its finest. Because it’s Aziraphale, though, he beats his displeasure down like a baker beats down dough. 

“You made a real strange one with him, you know that?” he says, eyes flickering up to the ceiling. “Six thousand years and he’s still… odd. Still finds ways to surprise me.” 

For the first time since The Garden, Crowley doesn’t necessarily mean that as a compliment. He doesn’t _not_ mean it as a compliment, but he’s felt strange since walking in to see Aziraphale in a bookshop that sparkles. 

Change is inevitable, and he knows that well enough. Having lived for millennia, he knows how time marches along, building and eroding and building and eroding in a cycle he wasn’t high enough on the celestial hierarchy to be privy to details about when it first got rolling. He likes change, especially the way humans do it. Things get flashier and flashier, and Crowley gets to tag along for the ride. 

Aziraphale hasn’t struggled with change, per se, but he normally doesn’t adapt as well as Crowley does. It’s part of their routine - Crowley finds the newest gizmos, figures out which will stick around and which will crumble and fall by the wayside, and he tries to convince Aziraphale to adopt them before they’re completely obsolete. 

He’d just gotten the angel to buy a landline, for fuck’s sake. 

“Odd,” Crowley repeats. He’s still turning all of this over in his mind and coming to no useful conclusions when he remembers the treat in his fridge. 

It’s become second nature to legally [6]purchase Aziraphale some kind of sweet whenever he accomplishes something he’s proud of rather than miracle it up or wait for him to order something nice for himself. Particularly clever miracles or temptations used to destroy his wallet[7], and he had attempted to bring celebratory chocolates when Aziraphale had first opened the bookstore. There was also that time when Warlock was nine[8], and Crowley _had_ to reward Aziraphale with macarons. 

In line with this unspoken sort-of-tradition, yesterday he had bought a cake for Aziraphale’s first “I am going to sell books! I really, really mean it!” day. A beautiful, double-decker, double-decadent, double chocolate cake. Filled with strawberry jam and covered in a sinfully delicious mousse, it’s a monument to angelic indulgence. 

It may also be an attempt to guilt Aziraphale into being honest about his sudden desire to upend everything Crowley thought he knew. 

In his defense, Crowley never claimed to play fair - unlike Aziraphale who claims to play fair and then changes the rules halfway through so as to be able to then claim that he was, in fact, playing fair, and you just weren’t paying attention closely enough, dear - 

“I pay plenty of attention,” Crowley mutters as he wanders to the fridge. “Loads. More than I should. Hell’d have my head for how much attention I pay. I’m up to my neck in debt from _paying_ _attention_.” 

With that, he flings the door open, images of Aziraphale’s delighted gasp already dancing through his head. 

However, rather than the scent of lemon cleaner that covers his entire kitchen, a putrid stench rises. Crowley immediately slams a hand over his mouth, trying to tamp down on the way his body tries to gag. 

“What the - ?” He hacks into his hand, trying to get the smell-taste out of his throat. 

Similar to the green room, there are flies buzzing around the inside of his fridge. Instead of wilting and dead plants, the fridge is full of rotted food. The gourmet leftovers have leaked out of their cardboard containers - warm, sticky, and repulsive. The fruit he always keeps on hand is closer to compost than anything edible. He thinks he can see some creepy-crawly digging in the entrails of what might have been a pomegranate. 

The cake box - a large white thing with a pale pink border - is visibly drooping. When Crowley hesitantly flicks it open, he grimaces. 

The mousse has melted and spoiled the entire thing. It smells and looks like rancid dairy. 

As he pulls his hand out of the fridge, he realizes it isn’t cold. The light didn’t flick on when he pulled the door open. It isn’t humming with miracled electricity. It’s a dark, humid box full of moldy, gag-inducing food. 

He doesn’t bother checking why it isn’t working - The damn thing’s never been plugged in, so for anyone who wasn’t Crowley it never should’ve worked. 

Except he is Crowley, and it should work because he expected it to.

His gut clenches for reasons other than the stench of foul decay. It’s easier to slam the refrigerator shut - easier to back away, press his glasses higher up his nose, grab the Bentley’s keys, and walk out of the door - easier to ignore the madhouse his flat has apparently decided to become between one blink and the next, rather than to think about the gaping pit that’s opened up next to where his stomach would be. 

“Quick trip to the bakery, then to Aziraphale’s,” He says in between thick breaths. “It’s all fine. Totally fine. Not a problem.” 

The Bentley, for the first time since he purchased her, doesn’t swing a door open for him. That’s fine, too. He grabs the handle, and after a bit of wiggling and jiggling, it opens, and he can slide into the driver’s seat. 

He takes a breath before slotting the key into the ignition. It’s fine. 

The Bentley doesn’t start. He twists the key again, swallowing back bile. His stomach churns alarmingly when a second - third - fourth - when a fifth time, the engine turns over without success. He hits the dash and says, “Fucking - work - damn - you!” 

His car’s always worked. It survived the apocalypse. It drove through fire that was both too hot and too cold for human comprehension because Crowley never thought that it couldn’t. It’s a beautiful piece of machinery bolstered by Crowley’s indomitable will, and there’s no reason for it to be sitting, dead, when it’s never needed things like “routine maintenance” and “gas” before. 

Crowley curls an arm around his stomach and curves over the steering wheel, forcing breaths past his clenched jaw. 

“It’s fine,” He says through gritted teeth. “Just a fluke. Having a fluke-y day. It’s. Fine.” 

Pushing down the voice that’s most emphatically saying that things are not, in fact, fine, is harder than it should be. Certainly not impossible, though. 

* * *

Footnotes: 

3Not that Crowley knew that, seeing as most of his time on Earth has been preoccupied with other matters that are more important than going to see subpar gardens and greenery. Matters such as: Aziraphale, lunch with Aziraphale, making sure Aziraphale doesn’t blow himself up, and occasionally a nap or three. [return to text]

  
4Not Beelzebub’s, for what it’s worth. Theirs hold no interest in any greenery or mortal matters that aren’t poker-related. [return to text]

  
5More or less. Mostly less, if he’s being fair. [return to text]

  
6Well. Mostly legally. He uses actual money to buy it, but not his own money or anything ridiculous like that. [return to text]

  
7Again, not really his wallet. [return to text]

  
8This was the incident that required miracling a memory for Mr. and Mrs. Dowling to convince them that they had hired Brother Francis as both their gardener and an inconspicuous, first-line-of-defense type bodyguard.[return to text]


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s watched artists paint images that can’t possibly exist in reality, he’s watched architects build entire structures that shouldn’t work but somehow do, he’s watched scientists explore and improve on things that God made - he’s been awed and terrified and enraptured in equal measures. 
> 
> His favorites, though, have always been the writers. Perhaps that is obvious, considering how open he is with his passion. Oh, but Oscar and Jane and Malala and William and millions of others that are less famous but no less talented - he’s loved and envied them in equal turn. 

Aziraphale has done a lot of thinking in the past few months. So much so that sometimes he’s given himself a headache, or he’s uncomfortably reminded of how it felt to cram himself into Madame Tracy’s body alongside the woman with one of the most unique personalities he’s ever met. His chest feels tight, sometimes, and other times his heart beats frantically without his permission. 

He’s started sweating, which is terribly unpleasant. He had to buy deodorant the other day, and that started off a whole new wave of thoughts and thinking and head scratching[9]. 

Who can blame him, though? His thoughts have been dramatic as of late, shocking thoughts that would’ve scandalized any proper angel. Gabriel, certainly, would’ve written him up for contemplating such audacious whims. He’s toeing the line between curiosity and blasphemy, idle wondering and disobedient thoughtfulness - It’s a bolder move than an angel would, in normal circumstances, even consider. 

“It’s rather understandable I’d be…disconcerted. Isn’t it?” he says out loud, staring at his lukewarm tea as if it could validate his distress[10]. “I mean. An angel thinking about…that. It’s rather sacrilegious.” 

In this case, “that” is referencing two items. One would be Aziraphale’s now undeniable affection for Crowley, of course. That’s not exactly anything new, though - It’s just out in the open for the first time. For the first time, Aziraphale wants to try to be closer to Crowley rather than allow it to happen naturally. He wants to be around Crowley, and he wants Crowley to know that he wants to be around him.

All of these are things that he’s always wanted, but now he can articulate them without fear. 

The world-changing head scratcher, though, is Aziraphale’s recent realization that there have been a great number of things he would’ve liked to do. Things he would’ve liked to do that he’s avoided in order to adhere to Heaven’s will. 

He hasn’t been restricted in as many ways as humans would think. Heaven doesn’t much care about what people do with their lives if their actions aren’t explicitly Hellish. Gabriel and the archangels may have thought that Aziraphale indulging in food and drink was strange, but they never claimed there was anything inherently wrong in it. 

Similarly, the more… carnal pleasures are, at their core, necessary for reproduction and beneficial for emotional well-being. It’s another thing they would think Aziraphale strange for indulging in. They would judge and belittle him for it, but it wouldn’t be enough to disgrace him. His desire, affection, want - whatever you would call it - for Crowley is only deplorable in their eyes because he is a demon. 

No, the activities that Aziraphale has recently spent hours and hours chewing over and wanting are more along the lines of _creation_. 

That, to angels, is blasphemous. 

Creating is God’s domain. Angels may have helped nudge things along, but they didn’t create from scratch. God gave them a plan, and they followed it. Deviation was forbidden and punishable by pain of what has been said to be a rough tumble downwards. 

Humans may seem like an exception to the rule, but with barely a stretch, an argument can be made for humans creating things. 

They sort of have to, don’t they? Unlike angels, which are extensions of God’s will, humans are extensions of God’s free will. They were given a spark of creation, and that spark was fanned by Eve taking knowledge for humanity and setting the whole bunch of them aflame with curiosity and knowing. And unlike angels, who receive direct orders from Her, humans are deaf to Her words. They have to create to survive without God planning their footsteps for them, so in the end, their sin is forgivable, if not completely understandable. 

Additionally, as God’s favored creations, humans were born in Her image. Therefore, it’s natural for them to create and destroy as She does. On a smaller scale than God Herself, of course[11], but creation and destruction are domains that are for God and the humans and most certainly _aren’t_ meant for the celestial. Humanity survived the Tower of Babel - angels who dared to aim so high would reap much, much worse consequences. 

The safety to create and destroy without losing God is something that Aziraphale, shamefully, has been envious of for millennia. 

He’s watched artists paint images that can’t possibly exist in reality, he’s watched architects build entire structures that shouldn’t work but somehow do, he’s watched scientists explore and _improve_ on things that God made - he’s been awed and terrified and enraptured in equal measures. 

His favorites, though, have always been the writers. Perhaps that is obvious, considering how open he is with his passion. Oh, but Oscar and Jane and Malala and William and millions of others that are less famous but no less talented - he’s loved and envied them in equal turn. 

It was easy to hoard their works and leave it at that - to let the envy fester in his gut while he pretended the words he wanted to smith together weren’t rotting him from the inside out. He was like a beast stuck guarding its most precious treasures, really, and it was easier to stand sentry than confront the longing that took root in the thick of his wrist. 

And once he realized he wasn’t beholden to Heaven’s whims any longer, he started to resent his hoard. It felt suffocating rather than comforting - the stacks of once-beloved parchment felt more like a slowly tightening noose or the slow asphyxiation that comes from holding too much weight and responsibility. 

“Well. You see. I think it might be time to… To start actually selling some books,” he had told Crowley. And when Crowley pushed, he deflected with another one of his lesser concerns about the amount of miracles they use. 

It wasn’t a lie - Aziraphale is concerned about their miracle usage. He’s concerned about money and income and bills, of all things, when he remembers how often he’s seen poverty bring the strongest and brightest of humanity to its knees. He’s concerned that he and Crowley are rather more human than they’ve ever been up to this point. 

Admittedly, he’s not that concerned. Or, well, he is - but he can’t bring himself to think about it much longer or else his body will start sweating even more than it already is. He has far too many fears regarding the consequences of their respective defections, so Aziraphale would much rather focus on Crowley, his books, and the theoretical texts Aziraphale could write himself. It’s still stressful but much less so than imagining what Heaven is planning or what Hell is waiting to do to Crowley. 

He would much rather imagine Crowley’s pleasure at Aziraphale finally giving, as he put it, “the twenty-first century a go.” The look that Crowley gave his new outfit makes Aziraphale believe that his demonic counterpart would quite like that Aziraphale is trying to be imaginative and creative - that’s something he prides himself on, after all, and Aziraphale would be lying if he claimed that impressing the wonderfully flash demon isn’t part (or, in fact, the majority) of his motivation in wanting to pick up a pen. The desire to catch up - to finally match Crowley’s pace, to see where they could go if Aziraphale let Crowley take them there - is overwhelming. 

With them newly on their own side, as Crowley would say, Aziraphale thinks that Crowley would encourage Aziraphale to spit in Heaven’s face with making something. He’d understand how big of a step this is, and he’d push Aziraphale to go even further. He’d tell Aziraphale to include some kind of nasty metaphor disparaging God’s hands-off approach to existence, or a more direct criticism like _The Golden Compass_ _Northern Lights._

Aziraphale doesn’t think he wants to go that far - for better or for worse, he’s not fallen[12], and he still respects and loves their Mother. 

But. 

A quick little something. He wouldn’t presume to try for a saga like Tolkien right off the bat or anything as beautiful as what dear Oscar had written - certainly not. Nothing as radical as _Paradise Los_ t, no. The idea of creating something still feels horribly taboo, so he thinks that he’d like to start small. 

A novella, maybe. Some poetry. He has plenty of material for poetry, he thinks. 

Speak of the devil[13] \- He’s just finished selling a copy of _The Importance of Being Earnest_ when Crowley saunters into the shop. Aziraphale pretends not to notice that he’s started to scare the rest of the customers out. Crowley, nice and sweet as he may be, is quite remarkable at terrifying humans for his own purposes. 

While Crowley bothers a young woman and her rather loud date, Aziraphale hurriedly pops out from behind his desk to use the closest window as a mirror. His reflection reveals that he’s looking out-of-sorts, so he hurriedly uses a minor miracle to fix his hair and straighten his clothes. 

Or, well, not his clothes exactly. They’re much too hip to be his, really. More accurately, they’re clothes that Madame Tracy had graciously helped him pick out. 

“I really think something salmon would look fetching with your skin tone,” she had said, holding up both shirts to his chest. Cocking her head to the side, she sighed. “But blue brings out your eyes - your young man would prefer that, I think.” 

Aziraphale had flushed and started twisting his pinky ring. “Oh, no, well. See, Crowley’s not exactly young, you realize, and I’m afraid we’re not. Um. He isn’t mine, you see.”

“Not yet, perhaps,” Madame Tracey had said sweetly, shoving the blue shirt into Aziraphale’s suddenly sweaty hands. “When he sees you in this, though? It’ll only be a matter of time.”

Aziraphale, selfishly, hopes so. Crowley had seemed impressed with the outfit when Aziraphale debuted it, and that response had him feeling giddy with success. He had wiggled with anticipation for days after. For once, he felt that he wasn’t falling behind. He had finally started to catch up to Crowley, and maybe that could _mean_ something. 

Then Crowley proceeded to disappear for much longer than Aziraphale would’ve preferred, and his anticipation had turned to dread. In the grand scheme of things, a few weeks isn’t very long at all, but with the ever-looming fear that someday Heaven or Hell will come looking, it was disconcerting not to have Crowley nearby to keep an eye on. 

As Crowley approaches him, though, Aziraphale can’t help but hope a little more. He’s been hoping for weeks that Crowley could be just a smidge braver than Aziraphale, and it’s easy to do so one more time. 

“You’re still all... new,” Crowley opens with, which doesn’t give Aziraphale much of an idea about why he has disappeared for so long. He waves a hand in a sweeping gesture - starting in the general direction of Aziraphale’s feet and landing at the tip of his head. “You’re keeping with the modern look then?” 

Aziraphale tries to read his tone. A little helplessly, with his hands twisting around each other, he says, “Well, not if you don’t like it. I just thought a change might,“ _impress you_ , “be nice. If you think it’s awful though - “ 

“No, no, no,” Crowley says quickly. “It is. Nice, I mean.” 

“Well.” Aziraphale wrings his hands a bit longer before forcibly putting them into his pockets to stop their motion. “Good, then, I suppose.” 

A tense kind of discomfort falls over them. Aziraphale’s fists clench tighter - and then somehow tighter when the uncomfortable silence continues to grow. 

Crowley hates him. He hates his new look. He hates the bookshop being clean, and _oh_ Aziraphale knew he should’ve let the spiders stay. Crowley was always strangely fond of the long legs and now that they’re gone he must despise Aziraphale. And the slacks - much too form fitting. 

No, he’s gone and botched it all up, hasn’t he? It’s a good thing he didn’t mention the whole writing nonsense - Crowley would think him awfully silly for that. He wouldn’t laugh, because Crowley’s not cruel, but he would snort, and Aziraphale would feel very stupid indeed. 

Now Crowley hates him, thinks he’s stupid or ridiculous or both, and he’s going to leave Aziraphale all alone. What is he supposed to do without Heaven or Crowley? Without God telling him not to pick up a pen or Crowley encouraging him to, Aziraphale’s a ship without a captain. 

“So.” Crowley clears his throat loudly, jolting Aziraphale out of his despair. Crowley leans forward on the desk with what’s obviously forced casualness and asks, “What’re you up to today? Other than your… book selling.” 

“I - “ Aziraphale starts hesitantly. “Well. I saw that there was - down by that place we got breakfast back in the noughties, you know the field there? A few young men came in here earlier talking about some music festival that they’re going to be attending.” 

It’s a bit of a lie. Just a small one. He’s actually had his eye on this event for a few weeks. If Crowley hadn’t shown up today, Aziraphale may or may not have mustered up the courage to call and invite him. In this moment, though, he’s grateful for Crowley’s unexpected visit. It’s much easier this way, pretending it’s a spur-of-the-moment decision caused by some idle eavesdropping, rather than a pre-planned event. 

“Oh?” Crowley’s right eyebrow raises just enough that it can be seen over the rim of his sunglasses. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale confirms. “And I thought we could go and see it. The weather’s meant to be very mild for this time of year, and the music seems quite peppy.” 

“Peppy.” 

“Yes,” he says again. “Peppy.” 

“Wait - Wait wait wait. A festival. A peppy musical festival.” Crowley reels back, visibly shocked. “Are you saying that this isn’t an orchestral type thing? No symphonies, no music written back when your waistcoat was in style? This isn’t at a fancy hall or that place in Chelsea you like so much?” 

Aziraphale’s gut twists with embarrassment. Crowley’s looking at him strangely, stunned in a rather unflattering way. Unflattering for both of them, really - it’s not an attractive look for Crowley, and the astonishment doesn’t say much to Aziraphale’s character. 

At the same time, his hands are clammy, and they’re sticking uncomfortably to the fabric of his trouser pockets. He’s feeling quite lightheaded. A feat, considering he doesn’t require blood flow, oxygen, or any of the other physical matters that would result in feeling such a way. 

Crowley hates him. He hates him, he’s going to laugh at Aziraphale’s suggestion while walking away, and Aziraphale will be left alone with no master, no demon, and no purpose. 

After two tries, he finally croaks out, “As I said, it’s in a field.” 

“ _You_ want to go to a music festival. With loud bands. And likely not a piccolo in sight. You feeling alright there, angel?” 

“If you don’t want to go you can just say so!” Aziraphale shocks himself with how many octaves his voice has jumped. “It won’t hurt my feelings, you can just - just say it!” 

This is, of course, a blatant lie. Aziraphale will be devastated if Crowley won’t join him. Crowley never says no to him - not in any way that matters. It’s a constant Aziraphale has counted on for more centuries than he’d care to admit and millennia longer than Heaven would ever forgive him for. 

Crowley’s silence and gaping mouth is horrible in a way Aziraphale can’t quite explain. Regardless, he can’t bear it a moment longer, and he spins to hurry to the backroom. There, he has books to shelve and organize, and they wouldn’t keep him in suspense like this. 

“No that’s not - Angel, that’s not it! Wait, c’mon - “ A tug on his sleeve and then a firmer grip around his upper arm stops his retreat. Another tug encourages him to turn around and face the blasted demon that, without fail, gets Aziraphale caught up in a tizzy. 

“It’s okay,” he says shakily. “You don’t have to - “ 

“I know I don’t _have_ to,” Crowley says. He hasn’t let go of Aziraphale’s arm. Somehow, even with his sunglasses, his eyes are searching and seeing more than Aziraphale is strictly comfortable with. “I don’t _have_ to do anything. I want to go listen to this music with you, though.” 

Aziraphale scuffs one of his shoes against the floor. After a moment, he swallows and asks, “You do?” 

“‘You do’, he asks,” Crowley mocks. “Yes, angel. Of course I do. I’d go to the fucking moon if you asked.” _You must know tha_ t is heavily implied in his tone, which is silly because Aziraphale, of course, _doesn’t_ know. He has no idea of where their boundaries are, of what Crowley would do for him, of how far they’re in this together and how much Aziraphale is alone in his wants. 

He’s never let himself want fully, before, and it’s new and terrifying in all of the worst ways. He wants to scribble words down with his slick-with-sweat palms until something smooth and golden bleeds itself onto the page, but more alarmingly, he wants Crowley to read it all. Even the clammy, raw bits of himself. 

* * *

Footnotes: 

9 Not literally, thankfully. Aziraphale doesn’t think he could handle dandruff on top of the other bodily functions his corporation has taken to recently. [return to text]

  
10Madame Tracy would argue that it could, but only if he properly laid out the tea leaves and let her read for him. She was of the belief that Aziraphale has little, if any, competence with divination. Aziraphale wouldn’t disagree.[return to text]

  
11This is debatable, considering how utterly wonderful and wretched humans can be. The scope of their creation and destruction has grown exponentially as humans have populated the Earth, and it’s looking more and more like they will destroy the world in a way that even God would have to tilt Her head and squint at to fully understand. [return to text]

  
12Yet, he thinks anxiously. After their switcheroo, Aziraphale has been glancing over his shoulder and waiting to feel someone (or Someone) pushing him off his perch. [return to text]

  
13Literally. [return to text]


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you drunk?” Aziraphale asked incredulously after Crowley pulled them back into the correct lane. “What has gotten into you today?” 
> 
> “Do you want to drive?” Crowley snapped, harsher than Aziraphale thought the situation called for. “No? Then stop being so - so judgy!” 
> 
> Aziraphale gasped. “Judgy!” 
> 
> “Yes! Judgy! The six-thousand-year-old who hasn’t bothered to learn how to use a toaster doesn’t get to criticize my driving!” 

Aziraphale takes pen to paper for the first time that night. Or, well - not the first time, technically. He’s written letters before, of course, as well as lists and financial records and a plethora of other verbal tasks. What Aziraphale does for the first time is write for the sole experience of writing. 

Many wonderful works of fiction have started the same way: with an intense, furious kind of spite. Aziraphale’s work could, at best, be mediocre, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t start from the same place as the masters. 

The spite comes back to Crowley, as most of Aziraphale’s problems do. 

Their outing had started well enough, considering the awkward, inelegant silence stretched between them at the store. He had waded through the sticky taffy of that silence to close up shop, trying in vain to return them to their normal sense of camaraderie. 

Admittedly, it had taken him a little longer to close up than usual. He had to sweep out the debris that customers had tracked in, and he had to check the register and make sure it counted up appropriately. He thinks Crowley had been annoyed by the delay, but Aziraphale is still new to the intricacies that go into truly running his business. He doesn’t want to muck anything up by rushing. 

Crowley drove, as always. Unlike always, he drove rather slowly. They chatted - a little awkwardly, still, and Aziraphale would have given anything to disperse the tension between them - and Crowley never once went faster than a mild forty miles per hour. In between dull comments about the weather and what books he had sold earlier, Aziraphale tried to remember when the last time Crowley had actually listened to road signals and the like had been[14]. 

The field, when they arrived, was full of young humans and their companions. Music was already blasting from speakers - which, surprisingly, ruffled Aziraphale’s feathers less than he thought it would. Crowley’s bebop has never been his cup of tea, but Anathema’s recommendation of “chill alternative” was looking to be a good middle ground between Crowley’s loud headbangers and Aziraphale’s more delicate taste. 

At least, Aziraphale thought so. Crowley didn’t seem to agree. His face had been oddly pinched since they arrived, and it tightened further at Aziraphale’s delighted, “Oh, isn’t that swell! He has quite a lovely voice, doesn’t he? I think this is Hozy - Hozier?” 

He said, “Yeah. Swell.” 

They stood in what little silence could be found at a concert with a couple hundreds of attendees. Aziraphale cleared his throat and asked, hesitantly, “Crowley, would you be a dear and get us a blanket to sit on? I didn’t even think about seating. And, well, we’re outside - “ 

“Blanket?” Somehow, his lips pressed tighter together. “Nah. ‘S a nice enough day. What do we need a blanket for? Grass isn’t wet or anything.” And as if he hadn’t destroyed Aziraphale’s entire worldview with a single sentence, he plopped down to the ground and let his legs sprawl out in front of him. 

Aziraphale still can’t fully explain why Crowley refusing to miracle a blanket sent his stomach into his shoes. He can’t explain why it had made his hands start to sweat again or why his eyes had filled with water until he miracled them dry. If he had to guess, it’d be the fact that he can’t remember a time where Crowley ever told him no - implicitly, explicitly, or anywhere in between.

The world felt colder. _Aziraphale_ felt colder. 

“O-oh. Yes. I suppose the weather is… temperate.” Aziraphale smiled weakly and sat down as well, unable to think of any other response. He wasn’t able to muster up his normal distress for potential grass stains and blotches of mud, so it was relatively easy to sprawl out himself and pretend right alongside Crowley. 

Despite his sweaty hands and racing heart, Aziraphale enjoyed the music. They stayed for a few different groups, and each of them had the passion that Aziraphale admired so dearly in the humans. Some verses, in fact, had Aziraphale choking back a strange, yearning noise he didn’t think his voice box could make. 

The intensity that humans bring to their crafts - the graceless genuity they express so artlessly but truthfully - Aziraphale loves and envies and envies just a tad bit more. 

He could have listened to them all night. The love ballads, the angry ravings, the eerie echoes - all of it had him enraptured. He can’t remember the last time he enjoyed new music - likely sometime around the baroque or classical eras. It was easy for him to get lost in the ebb and flow, the rises and dips and warbles humanity excels at molding to their will. 

Then Crowley stiffened next to him, and Aziraphale was yanked out of his pleasant daze. The strange, intense look on his companion’s face had Aziraphale straightening, his eyes darting around them. 

“What’s wrong? Is - is someone here?” Aziraphale hadn’t sensed any ethereal beings, and he hadn’t smelled the taint of hellish corruption; though, he never really could when Crowley was around. He looked harder, letting his senses sharpen. When he smelled very carefully, something that could’ve been recreational drugs or the taint of another demon met his nose, and he immediately gasped. 

Crowley shook his head and said, distractedly, “‘Course there’s someone here. There’s like. A thousand humans around us.” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale hissed, grabbing at his arm. His grip was rougher than he intended, and Crowley hissed back in retaliation. “You know what I mean. Are we - Do we need to switch again?” 

Aziraphale has, since the end of the Apocalypse, carried a few backup plans in his back pocket for if Heaven and/or Hell came back for them. No plans are ever foolproof, and Aziraphale’s are no different. In fact, almost none of them would have the slimmest chance of working without a significant amount of luck. If Heaven and/or Hell ever figure out that their apparent immunity was a trick rather than a sign of Divine Acceptance[15], their next moves are limited. 

The crushing hopelessness that Aziraphale has spent weeks and weeks trying to ignore and push down rose all at once. It clawed its way up from his gut to his throat, and then it scrambled to crawl out of whatever orifice it could find. It tried to slide out as tears and a choked sob. 

Aziraphale, breathless from fear and uncertainty and the feeling of his already upside-down world going more topsy-turvy, somehow pushed all of that back and instead tugged and forced Crowley to move until their eyes. 

“Switch - ? No, no. Yeesh, no.” Crowley’s laugh, then, was more of a bark than anything else. His eyes were covered by his sunglasses, so Aziraphale couldn’t tell what, exactly, he was looking at in that moment. Was he looking at Aziraphale, or was he trying to find someone in a crowd? 

“Are you sure? You’re sure we don’t have to - “ 

Crowley cut him off sharply, “I just smelled something off. No big deal, we’re at a music festival. Who knows what the kids smoke these days?” 

“You’re certain?” 

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Drop it. You’re safe.” 

Aziraphale deflated, tension draining from his shoulders down to his curled toes. “Oh goodness, Crowley! You gave me quite a fright, you know,” he chided. “Getting all tense like that.”

He stiffened suddenly and shoved at Aziraphale until he was free from Aziraphale’s grasp. In the next breath, Crowley snarled, “ _I_ gave _you_ a fright?” 

Aziraphale remembers blinking a few times in confusion. He remembers the way Crowley looked at him, with a strange mixture of fear and disdain - and most of all, he remembers wondering when things got so strange between them. 

He finally said, “Well, yes!” while waving a hand at him. The sprawl that had turned not-so-languid as his usual pose, the jaw clenched so tightly that it was minutely trembling, the stiff lip that shook just a smidge - it had all been extremely worrying, and Aziraphale doesn’t think he had been overreacting. “You got all - all spooked! I thought you had seen something! Or someone! And I thought I might’ve smelled something - “ 

“There’s nothing here. It’s fine.” 

“Well, I thought - “ 

“I just said it’s fine!” 

Aziraphale cried, “Well, can you blame me for thinking otherwise? You’re acting awfully strange!” 

Crowley straightened up, tense and more a strung guitar string than snake. Aziraphale leaned back as Crowley said, lowly, “That’s rich. Real rich, angel.” 

Aziraphale asked, “Whatever is _that_ supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing. ‘Course it’s nothing.” He stood up suddenly, then, and said with faux cheer, “Well, I’m sick to my stomach from all of the sappy bull Ms. I’m-so-sad-my-boyfriend-doesn’t-love-me-back is spewing, so I’m out. If you want a ride, get moving.” 

Aziraphale hurried to join him, unhappy with the abrupt departure, Crowley’s strange behavior, and the way his malfunctioning body was still sweating-thumping-flushing against his will. 

The drive home was quite different than the drive in, and considering the drive to the concert had already been quite different than their normal automobile habits, it was strange and bizarre indeed. Aziraphale has always known that Crowley’s driving grew more reckless as his mood dropped, so he should have expected some oddness when taking into account Crowley’s sudden need to leave the festival. 

Even Crowley being a tad bit annoyed, though, doesn’t explain why he had been driving like - Well, if Aziraphale didn’t know any better, he’d have thought Crowley had never driven before in his life. The Bentley’s speed fluctuated between fifteen and ninety miles per hour, he nearly hit three parked vehicles, Aziraphale had been choked by his seatbelt at least five times with the abrupt braking, and at one point the car was on the wrong side of the road completely. 

“Are you drunk?” Aziraphale asked incredulously after Crowley pulled them back into the correct lane. “What has gotten into you today?” 

“Do you want to drive?” Crowley snapped, harsher than Aziraphale thought the situation called for. “No? Then stop being so - so judgy!” 

Aziraphale gasped. “ _Judgy_!” 

“Yes! Judgy! The six-thousand-year-old who hasn’t bothered to learn how to use a toaster doesn’t get to criticize my driving!” 

“Well!” Aziraphale floundered for a response. “Well - teach me then!” 

Crowley slammed on the brakes. He didn’t turn to look at Aziraphale, eyes on the road in front of him. Like a statue, except his mouth moved just enough to hiss, “Excuse me?” 

Aziraphale, feeling righteous and bolder than he ever had before, said loudly, “You heard me! If you’re bothered by me not using modern appliances or by me not knowing how to drive - well, teach me to drive then! I’m sure I could do it just as well as you do, and maybe I could drive you somewhere - anywhere!" 

He knew, at the time, what he was echoing. He thought this was an olive branch - no. He thought this was a bouquet of roses, shoved into Crowley’s face with a desperate, “Please. I want this, I want you - “ 

Crowley said, “Get out of my car.” 

Aziraphale said, “Crowley, I - “ 

“Now.” 

And so Aziraphale got out of the car.

He choked back what he wanted to say ("What did I do? Crowley, I'm sorry, what did I do? I don't understand I'm sorry please don't make me leave please don't do this - " ) and he got out of the car. 

He didn’t watch the Bentley veer back into traffic, too stung and far too stunned. 

The walk to the bookshop - because Crowley hadn’t dropped him off; he had kicked him out - was slow. He kept stopping every few feet to swipe at his eyes and take deep breaths, or to sit down and put his spinning, dizzy head between his thighs until he felt he could keep going. It was one of the more unpleasant walks he’s taken in his life. 

When he walked into his store and collapsed on the couch in the stockroom, his eyes were swollen, his nose had run for long enough that his handkerchief was effectively useless, and his chest ached from fear-stress-pain-hurt - essentially, more emotions than Aziraphale knew how to deal with all at once. 

He wondered, abruptly, if this was why all of those humans would write. To really understand what they were feeling, to put it down on paper so they could read it and analyze - 

And with that, he picked up a pen and began writing. 

He spends hours scribbling and writing and rewriting and crumpling paper, to produce his first poem: 

_There’s kindness._

_A prickly, thorny thing, but kind nonetheless_. 

_Or maybe it wasn’t. Kind, that is. Perhaps, rather, a soft, tender cruelty._

_Sugar sweetens medicine, but it can conceal poison just the same._

_Will you give me a taste?_

It’s spiteful in the same way “The Cask of Amontillado” is, and Aziraphale feels darkly satisfied for a whole ten minutes. He copies it into a moleskine notebook he ambitiously bought for this new venture of his, and he signs it with a flourish. 

HIs satisfaction lasts until he realizes he wants Crowley to read it - and upon that realization, another one quickly followed. If Crowley were to read it - if Aziraphale hasn’t completely destroyed what they have - he would be hurt for a multitude of reasons. He would look at Aziraphale and force a laugh, or say something vaguely self-deprecating, and either option makes Aziraphale feel extremely wretched. 

He spends a few hours wringing his hands guiltily, pacing the length of the stock room and sighing and running his hands through his hair.

Then he picks up his pen again, and he gives it another go. 

_How many of us have tried to feel?_

_And of those, how many of us have tried to use those feelings?_

_How many of us have tried to reach Her?_

_And of those, how many of us have tried to understand Her?_

_How many of us tried to Fall?_

_And of those, how many of us have tried and tried and tried again to return?_

_How many of us have tried to love?_

_And of those, how many of us have cried over it?_

_I can say, with confidence, that only two of us have tried to love._

_With confidence, I can say that of those two, only one of us has cried._

_Try again, once more. Please?_

This one is also copied into the moleskine. Unlike the first, he folds the original into a small square and places it in the tiny breast pocket of his button down. 

For the rest of the week, he's proud and terrified in equal measures. He looks over his shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. His hand hovers over the tiny scrap of paper that is his entire heart laid bare, as if to protect it from harm. He hears Gabriel's voice around every corner, hears Her in every customer's laugh, in every wisp of wind, in every floorboard creak, and he waits and waits and waits. 

And when he's done waiting - when he's fairly certain he won't be harmed for what he's done, when he’s hesitantly poked his head out from his hiding space and realizes the sky hasn’t fallen - he picks up his pen again. And his notebook begins to fill. 

This is how Aziraphale becomes a writer. 

* * *

Footnotes: 

14The answer was: he briefly paid attention to the rules of the road when he first acquired the Bentley in the 30’s. Just so he would know how to best flaunt them, you see. [return to text]

  
15Divine Acceptance looks oddly like a “Do Not Touch” sign. [return to text]


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “‘You go too fast for me, Crowley,’ - and then he has the nerve - the absolute audacity - to offer to drive me anywhere!” Crowley throws the sink on, crossing his arms while he waits for it to fill. “Him! Driving me! As if I haven’t been driving him for the better part of a century! Like that hasn’t - like that hasn’t meant anything to him at all, like it can just be tossed away and thrown to the curb to get sold like his not-so-precious books!” 
> 
> He bats at the faucets until they shut off and goes back to the green room to start watering the new batch of brats. 

The thing is, Crowley had accepted the state of affairs decades ago. “The state of affairs,” in this case, being his relationship with Aziraphale. Since Aziraphale procured holy water for him back in the 60’s, their interactions followed the same recipe: 

_**Step one** : Crowley seeks Aziraphale out. A reason may or may not be provided, as at this stage of their acquaintance, Aziraphale has stopped wondering about coincidences and will invent a reason for Crowley’s presence if none is provided. _

_**Step two** : They banter. “Hey angel,” met with, “You wily serpent,” met with, “That’s me - can I tempt you to - ?”, or any variations thereof. _

_**Step three** : A meal or a car ride or a leisurely walk in a park.They eat or drive or stroll while bantering more. They are together. _

_**Step four** : Crowley, perhaps, allows himself to imagine what it would be like to feel Aziraphale’s hand within his own. He, perhaps, has to roll his wrist around to shake the want off. He does not give into temptation, because that would be far too ironic to bear. _

_**Step five** : Crowley takes Aziraphale back to his shop. _

_**Step five, part two (optional)** : They drink. They celebrate. They bicker. They argue. They laugh. _

_**Step six** : Crowley leaves while calculating how soon he can start it all over again. _

He’s tried to deviate from their routine before, and rarely has it gone well. Aziraphale has preferences, and above all else, he prefers comfort. If the choice is between “new” and “known,” Aziraphale’s decision can be predicted miles away. He’s a star - ever-so brilliant, but distant and, at its core, unchanging. 

Crowley’s a star too - he’s familiar. Aziraphale likes that. 

He likes that Crowley knows him, and he likes that he knows Crowley - whether he actually likes Crowley or not is up for debate and the subject of many a sleepless night, but Crowley knows for certain that Aziraphale appreciates that Crowley is predictable in his own way and is safe in another. 

The apocalypse, for example - Aziraphale at first refused to work against the Great Plan because that was known. The Great Plan - the Greatest Plan, Metatron and Gabriel and Beelzebub and all of the stuffy middle-management types would say if anyone paid attention long enough - has been passed down since before the first day, since before anyone knew what a “human” was. There’s nothing more comfortable than gospel passed down straight from God. 

In the end, Aziraphale decided to avert the apocalypse for food, for the humans he’s grown fond of, and for the material comforts he’s gone and gotten himself attached to. 

Crowley decided to avert the apocalypse for all of that too, but only because that’s what was important to Aziraphale[16]. If they could have stayed off of their respective sides’ radars by not doing a damn thing, Crowley may not have lifted a finger. If they wouldn’t have been forced to fight and destroy one another, he almost definitely wouldn’t have bothered[17]. 

In light of how strange Aziraphale has become since, Crowley wonders if he shouldn’t have dragged Aziraphale kicking-and-screaming to Alpha Centauri instead. After all, Aziraphale chose to go to a festival - the opposite of comfort, of known. 

“Music - and no, not Mozart or any of that other garbage. Modern music. Good music!” he shouts, dumping more soil into the terracotta pot. “And he has the nerve to be all ‘Oh Crowley you scared me!’ - Me! Scared him! When he’s all - “ He pauses to shove the succulent into the pot, roots and all. It barely trembles, which is disappointing but to be expected of someone so green. “He looked like he had seen a ghost, and he was tearing up when what’s-his-face took the stage, and he was sweaty. Do you know the last time Aziraphale sweated?” 

His new tenant doesn’t respond outside of a weak twitch. Crowley nods. “Right. Never. He’s an angel, and angels don’t bother with mundane bodily functions. Certainly not ones that are so,” he clears his throat and, in a passable imitation of Aziraphale’s posh voice, says, “distasteful. It’s quite sticky, isn’t it, Crowley? How do the humans manage?” 

He shoves the pot to the side once its occupant is laid in there, and he grabs a new pot to start. A coffee filter for the bottom, more soil packed in not-too-tightly, and another tiny plant to gently wiggle out of its plastic container. This one, too, is placed in its new home after a few idle threats. 

As he goes to get his watering can, he says, “I just - look. What we had was working. So I don’t know why he’s going all wonky, with the cleaning and the book selling and the new slacks and the music. And I know he wouldn’t tell me if I asked, he gets all weird with questions. He’d just get weirder, which is counterproductive to stopping him from acting all strange. 

“Besides which, it’s not like I can just ask ‘angel, what the fuck is going on? Don’t you care about your books anymore? And your stuffy waistcoat? And since when do you like Hozier?! Since when do you even know who Hozier is?’” 

The watering can is rusty - he points at it, snaps his fingers, claps, and chances tossing it against the wall. None of this has any discernible effect, other than what would normally result from tossing a watering can at a wall - namely, a large dent. He halfheartedly tries to pop it out when he goes to pick the can up. 

Rather than think about the fact that he hasn’t succeeded in any sort of miracle for going on two weeks, Crowley walks out to his kitchen to fill up the watering can, and he mentally turns back to his previous fretting. 

“‘You go too fast for me, Crowley,’ - and then he has the nerve - the absolute audacity - to offer to drive me anywhere!” Crowley throws the sink on, crossing his arms while he waits for it to fill. “Him! Driving me! As if I haven’t been driving him for the better part of a century! Like that hasn’t - like that hasn’t meant anything to him at all, like it can just be tossed away and thrown to the curb to get sold like his not-so-precious books!” 

He bats at the faucets until they shut off and goes back to the green room to start watering the new batch of brats. 

“Really, he should be ashamed of himself. He’s an angel worrying about material items like money and finances and new black slacks. Angels are supposed to be above greed and all that.” 

The sprouts dip under the weight of their bath, but Crowley is merciless. Unlike the last two times he’s tried to revive his garden since the original’s demise, they will grow and thrive. If he says it confidently enough and pretends that he’s not thinking about the messy, rotted remains of his first, then everything will work out. 

Green, luscious leaves. Strong stems. Moist, fungus-free soil. No flies. A gentle, pleasant scent. Changeable, growable, and not at all distant like stars and nebulas and all that bull. 

Like he’s a budding angel fledgling once more, Crowley tries to force his powers to work. With gentle pressure and the strongest belief he can muster, he wills the plants to grow. Taller, stronger, better - he wills it. 

Angels’ power works off of belief and faith in God; demons’ powers tend to work off of spite. Crowley, until he had a rather in depth conversation with one of the demons under Beelzebub, had never known this was the natural way of things. He no longer believed in God, and he had never believed in Satan if he’s being quite honest - but himself? 

Sure. That’s easy. Crowley knows what he’s capable of - down to the worst bits of himself, he knows who he is and what he can do. With that, he has always had faith in himself. He’s no god[18], but he’s competent and dangerous. Certainly, he’s smarter and more resourceful than anyone Downstairs, and he’s smarter and objectively better than everyone Upstairs[19]. If something needs done, he gets it done. Whether Hell or Aziraphale was asking, Crowley could make it happen. 

What it comes down to, is this: Crowley has always, since he was unceremoniously tossed from the golden gates in the sky, believed that he could protect what’s important to him. Whether that’s himself or Aziraphale or anything else of interest, he never considered any other option. He was one of Hell’s best agents because of his determination. 

There’s no logical reason why he shouldn’t be able to miracle rust off of a metal can, or water for his plants, or a blanket for Aziraphale - but he can’t. 

If it didn’t bother him so much, he’d make a joke about Viagra. However, like a young man with performance issues, he’s mortified by the problem and isn’t at the point where a joke would do anything except devastate him. And like that same young man, Crowley will die before he talks to anyone about it. 

Crowley’s boss-less, Aziraphale-less, and faithless. With all of this noted, it shouldn’t surprise him that his attempts fall flat. Of the ten plants he’s potted today, four of them droop. Three wilt. Two inexplicably jump out of their pots. The last turns black and rots before his eyes. 

Crowley shoulders slump, and when that doesn’t feel like enough of a reaction, he lets his body slither to the floor. He curls his knees into his chest and sighs loudly. “I just don’t get it,” he says forlornly. “Why isn’t what we have enough? Why is he suddenly doing new things? Celestial stuff - stars, galaxies, all that bright hullabaloo - they don’t change. They don’t do ‘new’.” He picks at the rotten leaves of his latest failure, sighing again. “What if he decides ‘comfortable’ isn’t enough?” 

And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? 

Crowley has spent millennia working his way into Aziraphale’s routines and making himself palatable so Aziraphale would welcome his company. Those millennia over which he made sure that Aziraphale never saw the needy, desperate bits that Crowley would burn out if he could - have they all been for nothing? 

At the first sign of freedom from Heaven’s rule, Aziraphale has gone off the rails[20], and Crowley is terrified that Aziraphale no longer needs him. 

If Hell nor Aziraphale needs him, _what use is Crowley?_

Crowley flings himself up into a sitting position and scrubs at his eyes. “No, yeesh. Introspection is way too depressing,” he complains. “I blame all the doom and gloom around here - yeah, looking at you, hydrangeas.” 

The dried up husk that used to be a bush doesn’t respond, because it’s as dead as plants can go. Crowley continues to blame it. 

“I just need to. Do something.” He turns to the newly-killed sprouts and nods decisively. “Remind him that we don’t need to go fiddling with new bullshit. We’ll stick to the classics. And he’ll stop selling books, and he’ll put his stupid waistcoat back on, and everything will be fine. Back to normal. Pre-Apocalypse normal. Normal and not-terrifying and just. The usual.” 

The sprouts don’t appear to agree, but Crowley doesn’t give a damn about their opinions, really. He stretches, brushes some dirt off of his pants, and leaps to his feet. 

“Right - we’ll go to the Ritz. He likes the Ritz. We’ll order the champagne we always do, and it’ll be fine. Business as usual.” 

Business as usual, except Crowley can’t magic up a reservation. He can’t get the Bentley to start, either, which means he can’t pick Aziraphale up like he usually does. 

Crowley ends up walking while screaming into his cell phone and demanding to speak to the highest authority the Ritz has. 

He could take the bus, theoretically. He’s taken it before. And now they have Uber and Lyft and all of those ridesharing programs that were convenient in the best ways and nasty in the worst ways. He could’ve taken advantage of that as well. 

Except then he’d have to explain to Aziraphale why he didn’t take the Bentley. “In the shop for inspection,” doesn’t quite jive when you’re immortal beings with almost limitless power. If he walks, he can claim that he felt like stretching his legs. 

Said walk takes a lot longer than expected, given he’s never walked to the shop before. He’s used to the Bentley just taking him where he needs to go - directions and maps and learning street names were never a priority. In this case, him getting lost ends up being a boon since the conversation with the Ritz’s management drags on long past the time a polite request should call for. 

“We’re frequent customers! Don’t we deserve some respect? For fifty- “ He pauses. “Teen. Fifty-teen. Fifteen. FIFTEEN YEARS we’ve been patrons of your establishment, and you can’t squeeze in a measly two-person party? Nowhere is there an extra table and set of chairs you can whip up for your most loyal, most patient - “ 

“Loyal?” Someone sneers, voice oddly close. Crowley startles and drops his phone, comically fumbling with it for a few seconds before it dies a tragic death upon the pavement. The flimsy glass screen that he had a hand with inventing[21] cracks, and Crowley nearly bites his tongue off when he realizes he’ll have to go to the Apple store to get it fixed. 

“‘Scuse me, but you’re going to pay for - “ Crowley spins to face whoever snuck up on him, then falters immediately. “Uh. Hi.” 

“Hi, Crowley,” Dagon says with a toothy grin. Dagon - Lord of the Files, Harbinger of Notices about Late Reports, She-Who-Will-Shove-Form-7L9S-Down-Your-Throat-If-You-Mistype-It-Again - leans in until her breath, fishy and rancid, tickles Crowley’s nose. His breath, in turn, catches in his throat as he tries not to breathe in the eye-wateringly foul stench. “Walk with me.” 

“Er, see, I was sort of - “ 

Dagon’s grin doesn’t waver as she throws an arm around his shoulders and tugs him in the opposite direction of Aziraphale’s shop. “Not a question. We’re walking.” 

Crowley, despite having the height advantage, is forced into stumbling along next to her. He nearly trips over his own feet as he babbles, “Right. Yes. Walking. Love me a good walk. Like a dog, that’s me.” 

“You’re too much of a pussy to be a dog.” 

“Always the sweet-talker, you.”

* * *

Footnotes: 

16Sure, Earth’s alright. Crowley would’ve been perfectly happy in Alpha Centauri, though, as long as Aziraphale was there to orbit around. They’d be more or less indistinguishable from the other stars in their true forms. - Words wouldn’t be as important, and they might not be able to get drunk, but they would be together. [return to text]

  
17Would’ve kept him from having to share Aziraphale with humans like Oscar Wilde if the world had ended. Not that he wanted it to, really. He likes humans and thinks they’re pretty nifty, and it would be disappointing to let all of that creativity and general insanity disappear completely. He would just prefer that Aziraphale liked them a little less (and him a little more.) [return to text]

  
18Nor is he God, of course. [return to text]

  
19Not including Aziraphale, who is right at the ground floor with Crowley and has his own separate place within Crowley’s belief and faith system. [return to text]

  
20Let’s note: off the rails for one person may look like driving a car off a cliff. For a stuffy, fussy angel like Aziraphale, Crowley isn’t far off the mark. [return to text]

  
21How easy they break, how quickly people become furious at having to pay out the ass for a new screen or a new phone, the frustration - he hadn’t gotten a commendation for glass touch screens, but he sure as Hell deserved one. [return to text]


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fair good millennia ago, one of the earthbound demons stopping in to give their report said, “Dagon, you’re one of those strong‘n silent types, arentcha?” 
> 
> Dagon, in return, ripped their throat out with her teeth. As you did in those early days - establishing dominance in Hell was necessary not only for setting a precedent but also for survival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably my favorite chapter in the entire fic tbh - i loved writing dagon so much <3 she is precious To Me <3

A fair good millennia ago, one of the earthbound demons stopping in to give their report said, “Dagon, you’re one of those strong‘n silent types, arentcha?” 

Dagon, in return, ripped their throat out with her teeth. As you did in those early days - establishing dominance in Hell was necessary not only for setting a precedent but also for survival. Princes like Beelzebub or star employees like Crowley didn’t need to worry about petty things like the hierarchy when they were either at the top or not in the chain at all. Dagon, on the other hand, has always been an average demon with average abilities, and she wasn’t lucky enough to get stuck with human-tempting duty like useless-dumb-apple-loving Crowley. Her teeth, sharp and pointed, are that way for a reason. 

The demon’s words stuck with her long after the putrid taste of their blood stopped lingering on her tongue. A strong and silent type - it wasn’t a poor assessment, considering it came from someone who didn’t have 2 brain cells to rub together. A bit inaccurate, considering Dagon is weak and relatively spineless outside of her posturing, but that demon wouldn’t have any reason to know that. 

Dagon was never one of the talkers. Lucifer, Crawley-Crowley, and even Beez before the Fall - they were the chatty ones. They’re the ones who used flattery, praise, and, above all else, _questions_ to lure foolish morons to their side. They had personality and, like moths to a flame, their brethren responded and were subsequently burned. 

She was one of those moths - but she also wasn’t. Part of her was drawn in by their appeal, how they were far more startling and exciting than any of the more proper, well-behaved angels. 

Part of her, though, had never fully believed the loudmouths. Their claims of grandiosity were tedious after the first two repetitions, and they didn’t have too much creativity back then[22], so their speeches, exciting at first, soon sounded like broken records before records had existed. Even millennia later, Satan still sounds like a parrot repeating itself over and over and over, if anyone cared to ask lowly, paper-pusher Dagon. 

Dagon didn’t fall because of any grand moral qualms against God. In fact, she’s still fairly alright with God. Not that God ever talks back, but Dagon likes being able to vent and groan in prayer and know that someone has to be listening. 

No, Dagon fell because she had liked that they were doing new and exciting things - that there were new and exciting things to be had - and some of them were braver (and, unfortunately, louder) than others in going after new pursuits. And in the end, when push came to shove, Beez had been her best friend. Despite their incessant chitter-chatter that had bugged Dagon even when she still had virtues like charity and temperance, Dagon cared for Beez. Abandoning them wasn’t an option, and it’s not like Dagon had been going to have any more fun in Heaven without Beez than she would Downstairs with them. 

Beez, because they’re a good friend underneath the flies and grime and bitterness, pulled Dagon as close to the top as they could. Beez is strong - a prince of Hell, a champion of the war, powerful enough that Satan treads carefully around them. Dagon is, decidedly, not strong, but she’s always been loyal. 

Beez rewarded said loyalty with the highest position they could offer without putting Dagon in danger from usurpers and threats - Lord of the Files. 

It was funny at first - Lord of the Flies and Lord of the Files. The bureaucratic mix-ups with that had amused the two of them for decades. 

Then, the cronies and lowlives started realizing that Dagon was nothing but a glorified paper-pusher, Beez and Dagon grew apart, and Dagon realized that being called a “Lord” of anything was pretty unfunny when you had no authority to support having that title. 

All of this has lead to Dagon’s presence on Earth again - not at all like her first visit, but not much could compare to having a temple built in her honor[23]. It’s infinitely preferable to Hell, what with Beez’s shit mood that has been shittier since the whole “thwarted Apocalypse” thing. 

Dagon would never say this out loud, but she’s pretty damn grateful the Earth is still turning, still the green-blue-filled thing that she fell in love with so long ago. It’s been much too long since she’s been on Earth for an extended period of time, and selfishly, she’s glad that demons are chickenshit cowards. 

The most moronic demons (unfortunately, she does include upper management and Beez in this statement) were fooled by whatever trick Crowley was clever enough to pull off, leaving her as the only one with enough spine to volunteer to keep an eye on the stupid bastard. Beez had sent her off reluctantly, muttering about how they don’t have time to train someone on Dagon’s elaborate filing system, “So don’t get yourzelf killed, dumbazzzz.” 

Dagon, having received the dubious honor of watching Crowley cry over a withered tomato plant on her first day of babysitting, figures she’ll be alright. 

“So, er,” Crowley says. “What brings you up here? Vacation?” 

Dagon doesn’t answer, because that’s a stupid question. The answer should be obvious. 

“Are we going anywhere in particular?” 

“The park.” 

“For any particular reason?” 

“Gotta talk somewhere, don’t we?” 

“Do we? Need to talk? I don’t think we have any need to talk. You go your way, I go mine, we don’t have to bother each other, Hell leaves me alone - “ 

“Do you ever shut up?” she asks, curious despite herself. “Or is the incessant chattering a human thing you picked up?” 

Crowley gapes at her. She grabs his arm and drags him along, trying to force him to move faster. With legs like those, Dagon would’ve thought he could move a lot quicker than he does. 

The rest of their walk is blissfully silent. Dagon eventually moves her grasp so their arms are interlocked. It’s an attempt to get the humans to stop staring at them oddly while making sure he doesn’t do anything tricky like try to sneak off. 

The park is a park. Dagon doesn’t think there’s much special about it - some ducks, some grass, couple of flowers. If she were here alone, she would have stopped by the daisies for a sniff and a quiet moment. 

Crowley flings himself onto the first bench they come across, draping an arm across the back and beckoning Dagon closer with a curved finger. Dagon bares her teeth as a quiet threat, and he quickly curls his hands into fists where no appendages could be nipped off. 

“Right, so. Here we are,” Crowley says, tilting his head back. “Beautiful day, y’know. Don’t get sunny ones like this all that often in London. You picked a good day to come up.”

“I’ve been here for almost a month.” 

Crowley’s face twists. “That long? No - I sensed you at the festival, yeah, but - “ 

“A month,” she repeats. “First thing I saw was you blubbering over rotten tomatoes.” 

“You were - That was - “ His twisted face somehow twists further. Dagon has to hold back a chuckle. 

The hilarity of the situation makes it easier for her to move onto the topic she means to broach. Namely: the whole reason she’s stuck bothering him in the first place. 

“Here’s the deal,” she says. “You tell me how your whole holy water immunity came about. I go back to Hell, they use it to become the all-powerful, semi-ethereal caste in the conscious being hierarchy, and because you cooperated, you’re not completely obliterated from existence.” 

Crowley snorts. “‘Not completely obliterated from existence,’ yeah, right. So you mean I’ll be tortured for however long it continues to amuse our dearest comrades. So, likely, for eternity.” 

“Correct.” 

“Yeeeah. I’m pretty sure you can see how that’s not really going to work for me.” He grins like he doesn’t care, but Dagon can see the bead of sweat trailing down the side of his neck. It disappears into his collar quickly, but not so quickly that she doesn’t have time to take satisfaction in an intimidation tactic done right. 

She smiles with as many of her teeth as she can - which is nearly all of them. Crowley blanches, and her smile is a little more genuinely joyful at that. Or manic, considering what she’s about to do.

“Or,” she says slyly. 

“Or?” he responds warily.

“Or. Or you could... not tell me.” Her heart pounds as Crowley’s frown becomes confused. “Don’t tell me, and I’ll have to research it myself. On Earth.” Crowley’s jaw drops, and Dagon can feel her grin turn giddy. “After all - if a chickenshit moron like you can figure it out in six millennia, imagine how quickly I could. Maybe in four or five. And when there’s the entire fate of the world and Above and Below on the line, what’s a few millennia to Hell?” 

“I’m ignoring the hurtful words you slid in there, because this is - Wow.” Crowley leans back on the bench, running a hand through his hair and ignoring the duck that appears to be begging at his feet. “You’re defecting.” 

“I’m not defecting,” she corrects. “I’m still in service to Hell. I’m still loyal.” 

“In name only. Doesn’t sound like your heart’s in it, much.” 

“Heart,” she scoffs. “What kind of demon talks about heart?” 

“What kind of demon talks about pulling one over on the Lords and Dukes of Hell?” Crowley counters. 

Dagon doesn’t flinch, but it’s close. Her pointed not-flinching sparks a reaction in Crowley; his stare somehow becomes more piercing, hidden by those flash glasses of his. 

“You really want to do this,” he says, bewildered. “You want to be on Earth. Why?” 

What a stupid question. 

Isn’t it obvious? Dagon’s not like the reptiles and bugs of Hell that can thrive in dry heat. Her responsibility, a long time ago, was rivers and lakes and oceans. Water. Life, she’d say if she was feeling particularly maudlin that day. Her demonic form is a fish - an eel - a dolphin. Anything and everything that can’t survive in magma and heat and despair. 

She Fell with Beez, because she cared for Beez. At the time, she had believed that was her only option - the skies weren’t her domain, and when she was an angel her wings had been ill-fitting and heavy. If Beez couldn’t stay and if Dagon couldn’t fly, then Dagon couldn’t be in Heaven. Shedding her wings for gills, fins, and teeth had been a relief. 

After millennia of being treated like garbage, though, and millennia of feeling dry and flaky, and millennia of heat and suffering and the dying screams of humans who were too stupid to know any better than to accept a deal with the Devil - she had still endured. Because what else was there? 

Crowley, chickenshit coward that he is, proved that there’s another option. An option that has seas and rain and rivers and everything Dagon has longed for since God holed them back up in Heaven and told them to let the humans enjoy the angels’ hard work, now. 

And after millennia of her best friend pulling away and belittling her because Beez has been letting Hell extinguish, bit by bit, what little is left of the spark that made them worth following - Dagon is loyal, but she’s afraid she’s been loyal to the wrong person for a long, long time. 

She’s afraid, now that the Apocalypse didn’t happen despite everyone being so certain it would, that she’s wasted millennia paper-pushing for a cause that she didn’t even really believe in the first place. She’s afraid to fully leave Hell, but - 

But maybe if Crowley, coward extraordinaire, can do it, she just needs some time. He had his six millennia trial run - she probably won’t need that long. 

She doesn’t tell Crowley all of that - but she tells him most of it. It’s probably the longest she’s spoken in her entire life, and it leaves her throat itchy and dry. 

Crowley says, “Huh.” 

After a while, he adds, “Yeah, I can see that.” 

Dagon, after forcing herself not to punch him for the lackluster response, asks the question she knew she wanted to when she first got this assignment. 

“How’d you do it?” 

“Do it…? You mean the whole ‘go against Hell’ thing?” 

She gives him a tight nod. “Hell’s bad. But it’s all we have.” It's that unfortunate truth that keeps Dagon from cutting herself off from Hell the way Crowley has, even though she wants to. Even though, deep down, she thinks it’d be better if she did. 

Crowley laughs loudly. “It’s all _you_ lot have,” he says. “I have Aziraphale. It’s easier to leave when you have someone leaving their side too.” 

“An angel,” she says. It comes out with far less distaste than she normally would shove into her tone - Hell doesn’t take kindly to pro-angel propaganda of any sort. “What’s so special about him?” 

He stares at her oddly, and when she cocks her head to the side and motions for him to answer, he says, “You mean that. You really want to know.” 

Dagon scowls and crosses her arms. “I asked, didn’t I?” 

“Yeah, well. Normally our kind aren’t too fond of his kind.” 

“I’m not fond. I’m curious. Questions and curiosity and nebbiness are our kind’s thing.” 

“He’s -“ Crowley makes a strange half-shrugging, half-wiggling motion with his shoulders. “He’s Aziraphale. He’s fussy and a bastard. And he’s kind. And.” 

“And?” 

“I won’t say it twice. Okay?” Crowley looks around them furtively. In a voice barely above a whisper, he says, “And I love him. It’s easy to do scary things like stand up against Satan and stop the apocalypse when you’re in love.” 

Dagon thinks that she should laugh. Here they are, two piss poor demons sitting on a park bench while ducks slowly congregate around them, and they’re talking about love. It’s the lead in to a joke Beez would have lesser demons thrown to the worst pits for. 

She doesn’t want to laugh though, because Crowley the Coward was able to stand up and say, “No, this isn’t right,” because of love. 

The only proper demon thing she’s done all day is feel her gut writhe in envy upon hearing his response. 

She doesn’t say anything about that, as she doesn’t think Crowley would be all that impressed with boasts about proper demonic behavior. Instead, she stands up and says, “If I’m going to be here for a while, you better show me the ropes. I’ve heard good things about ‘internet’ and food.” She pauses. “Food that isn’t the garbage tomatoes you were crying over.” 

“I wasn’t _crying_.” 

“You were.” 

“I wasn’t! I was pissed off -”

“And crying.” 

“Raging! I was raging! Plants take a lot of work, you know, and they’re finicky - changeable, stupid things - You’d have tears of frustration too, you know!” 

* * *

Footnotes: 

22Dagon wouldn’t argue that angels or demons had gotten all that more creative since, but at least they have more material to work with since humans came around. That provides some more meaningful entertainment, if not very much. [return to text]

  
23The whole “Ark of the Covenant” thing caused some issues and ultimately resulted in her being recalled to Hell with strict orders to stop trying to outshine their Unholy Leader, but that’s a story for another day. [return to text]


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Opinions are words are sounds are noise_
> 
> _But yours is the only song I want to hear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big shoutout to [DiminishingReturns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiminishingReturns/pseuds/DiminishingReturns) for help with writing the second poem in this chapter - it's much higher quality than every other poem written for this fic because she's one of the best writers I know and i highkey HIGHKEY recommend reading her work <3 thank you jess!!!

Aziraphale is slow. He knows this, and over the years, he’s learned to allow himself time to process and ruminate and think before making any large decisions. His bookshop, for example, was an idle thought for a decade before he seriously started making plans to purchase the building[24]. 

This partially comes from the first time Aziraphale acted without thinking. Back in the early days when angels rarely had opportunities to make decisions, Aziraphale gave his sword away. At the time, he had fretted over whether it was the right thing to do or not[25]. 

Afterwards, he told himself that he thought it would be a helpful tool - that Adam and Eve would be able to protect themselves and their unborn child, use it for warmth, that it would ultimately keep them safe. He used that thought to justify the way humanity went on to use his gift to slaughter each other, to destroy beautiful landscapes, to tear and rip and burn while trying to sate something inside their core that Aziraphale wouldn’t want to understand even if he could. 

Deep down, though, he knows he wasn’t thinking at all. Adam and Eve were being thrown out, and something within him said, “That’s not right,” and his hand was holding out the fiery weapon before he knew what he was doing. Before he thought about the consequences. 

With how fast Crowley goes, Aziraphale doubts he’s ever thought about consequences. There isn’t enough time with someone so quick, so sharp. 

Crowley, who vaguely sauntered downwards - Aziraphale has always suspected that Crowley jumped without looking. 

This dichotomy - Crowley’s thoughtless fall contrasted with Aziraphale unthinkingly giving away what should be an angel’s most valuable possession - used to scare Aziraphale more than anything. In the end, Aziraphale long ago decided that it’s much safer to slow down and _think_. Crowley is a good demon, but Aziraphale wouldn’t be so lucky. He can’t fall. 

He _can’t_. 

Without Heaven, and now with Crowley most likely hating him, Aziraphale has no purpose. He has nothing guiding him. If he fell and subsequently lost his angelic identity, well, what use would he be to the world, then? 

“That’ll be twenty-four fifty - yes, I can take credit cards. Go ahead and swipe while I get you a bag.” Aziraphale smiles at the customer, and he almost means it. They smile back, a little awkwardly, and fumble with their wallet. 

“It’s - Mr. Fell? Mr. Fell, It’s really nice to see what you’ve done with the place,” they say. Their hands are shaking as they pull out a dark gray piece of plastic. “I’ve tried to stop in before, but your hours weren’t working with my schedule. I’m glad I was finally able to see your store - it’s really lovely.” 

Aziraphale places their purchases into a paper bag, which he hands to them. He smiles again, but it doesn’t feel any more sincere than his first one did. “Thank you, dear. I appreciate you saying so.” 

They leave, and before the door fully closes, Aziraphale has pulled out his moleskine and flipped to the latest page. He’s taken to keeping a pen behind his left ear, and he nabs it and starts penning his latest work. 

_Opinions are words are sounds are noise_

_But yours is the only song I want to hear._

It’s a shorter one, but he thinks that’s alright. Not everything is going to be _Beowulf_ , of course. Below it, he scribbles the date and his initials. 

Normally, this is where he closes the book and goes back to work. He’s fallen into a routine, in the week since he last saw Crowley - work the counter, if inspiration hits he’ll write in between serving them, and when it’s a reasonable time to close, he’ll head to the back with a cup of tea and his notebook. 

Today, though, he doesn’t want to put his poems away. It’s barely noon, but having the shop open feels less important than working within the notebook that’s slowly been growing thicker and thicker. In theory, it would be easier to start writing in a new notebook than it would be to keep adding to the one he already has. A stack of notebooks is no less manageable than the thousands of books he keeps track of for selling, after all. 

But sometimes he wants to continue something he previously thought finished, or he wants to start something new that isn’t in line with what he had been working on the day before. In this case, it’s much easier to miracle pages where he needs them rather than have to organize multiple repositories. He has a system that works, and it’s resulted in a small but chunky moleskine and a miracled trouser pocket to hold the strangely-shaped book. 

Crowley would make fun of him for it all. Not meanly - not the way Gabriel used to, where Aziraphale would spend a day or two with a visceral understanding of it really means to be self-conscious - but he would tease. 

“You with your sentiment,” he would say, tongue peeking out between his teeth. With that slight hiss he sometimes has on harder “s” sounds. 

And then a few days or weeks later, he would pop over with a notebook he “happened” to come across. “What am I going to do with it?” he’d scoff. “I’m not the word guy. That’s all you, angel.” 

Aziraphale would take it and pointedly not thank him, and Crowley would avoid his eyes until they left for lunch. 

“When did that lose its appeal?” Aziraphale asks out loud to the shop. With a flick of his wrist, the door shuts and the sign flips to “Closed.” He stares down at his open notebook and says wistfully, “It used to be fun. It felt - Oh, well, it felt almost _flirtatious_. When did it become not enough?” 

Now, like the books he’s started to resent, his and Crowley’s centuries-long dance and runaround has begun to feel like an albatross hanging from his neck. It weighs on him. 

It’s easy to start writing again with that fresh in his mind. And somehow, for some reason, this dissatisfaction starts a vicious cycle. 

Writing, stopping, contemplating where he stands with Crowley, writing again. He writes until his hand is sore, and then he miracles the soreness away to write some more. He works for hours longer than he thought he could - he works into the dead of night and then past it. 

Time is somewhat immaterial after living for millennia, but that doesn’t make it any less shocking to look up and see the reddish glow of a rising sun coming from the same window you were expecting to see the moon shining out of. Aziraphale, inexplicably, feels groggy. 

He - an angel - feels groggy. 

How far he’s come, Aziraphale muses. He shakes out the hand he had been writing with and finally closes his moleskin. It’s a couple centimeters thicker than it had been the day before - enough so that he doesn’t want to carry it around right now. He instead leaves it on the desk, lying next to the stack of books that have been reserved for those of his customers that called ahead. 

“Do you have a copy of - Oh, wonderful! Can you hold it until next Saturday?“ is a call Aziraphale receives at least twice a week, and rarely do they actually arrive that next Saturday. This particular stack is for an elderly woman who has called twice to ask for an extended wait time. 

It’s not a hardship for Aziraphale to keep the books in a pile and flip through them if he has a spare moment. His moleskine joins them, looking rather pitiful next to the large tomes. 

Pitiful, but likely not for long. Aziraphale has plenty of ideas bouncing around in his head, and surely he’ll have a hefty book of his own someday. 

Someday, maybe, but not today. He has to open the shop, after all. The only routine - the only purpose - he has these days. 

As he starts to do so - a quick sweep, unlocking the door, flipping the sign around, opening a window or two - he finds that he hopes, desperately, that Crowley would wander in with the rest of his customers. That he would give Aziraphale a reason not to tuck his notebook away, because Crowley would want to read over his shoulder while Aziraphale wrote and ignored customers. Aziraphale would let him, and Crowley would read: 

_Your heart is spun glass_

_A gossamer nest, starlight made corporeal_

-

_And I am, at best, a hammer_

_A creature of destruction and retribution, wielded by an uncaring authority_

-

_You offer me a home in your heart, a roost among your stars_

_As though my touch wouldn't shatter you_

-

_Reduce you to stardust_

Aziraphale wouldn’t have to tell Crowley, then. He could let Crowley read it all, and they wouldn’t have to say a single word. Crowey would see Aziraphale’s heart laid bare, exposed and vulnerable in a way Aziraphale could never afford to be until this point. 

He can’t bear to imagine how Crowley would respond. He can hear blood rushing in his ears at the thought of him knowing, let alone what he would do with that knowledge. Crowley could walk away and decide Aziraphale was too much work; He could leave. He could hate him.

Aziraphale would be torn apart if his first act of creation were to cause his first act of destruction. His and Crowley’s relationship is more important than Aziraphale’s feelings, but the reward - what they could _make_ together... 

In the end, though, Crowley doesn’t show up, and Aziraphale’s kept busy with the hectic nature of customer service. There’s more traffic today than usual - perhaps because of his early closure the day prior.

Not that Aziraphale ever has small, manageable amounts of customers anymore. It feels like the moment he cleaned the place up, people decided to flock to him and buy his entire stock every couple of weeks. 

It genuinely surprised him how well business has been since he started taking the shop seriously. He would have assumed there would be an adjustment period after decades of a variable schedule, filth, and the worst customer service a business could have without having lawsuits filed. Instead, Aziraphale has a number of regulars who stop by almost daily to browse - many of them purchase items every other time they walk in. 

It had bothered him, at first, but now that he and Crowley have yet to reconcile, it’s a distraction. 

The relative popularity still puzzles him though, and today he can’t take it anymore. When it’s near closing he decides to ask one of the regulars why they keep coming back. 

“Well,” she says slowly, looking at the cover of her latest purchase. “Mr. Fell, this might sound silly, but - Well, your shop feels loved. It reminds me of home. And I mean, before you changed your hours, I always wanted to stop in and see because you can tell how homey it feels from across the street, but I never could make it. So I suppose now that I have the chance, I want to stop by as much as possible. It’s nice, being here.” She looks up and smiles brightly. “I’m really glad you changed your hours, Mr. Fell. Stopping here on the way home from work has given me something to look forward to when the day gets long.” 

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Well. Thank you, my dear, for indulging my curiosity. I’m glad that this is a haven for you. Please, enjoy the rest of your evening.” 

She nods happily and takes it as the dismissal it is. The door shuts behind her, and Aziraphale stands up to flip the sign to “Closed” once more. 

Her response created more questions than it answered. If his bookshop is so welcoming and kind, he can imagine why humans would be drawn to it. Places with strong auras of love and care are to humans what flowers are to bees or what honey is to flies. 

The strange thing is, Aziraphale can’t sense an aura like that. The bookshop feels like it’s always felt - it’s a building, and he resides here with his books. It used to smell vaguely damp, and now it smells like parchment and leather. It’s an old bookstore, and Aziraphale wouldn’t argue there’s anything special about it other than his ethereal presence. And even then, it would be terribly arrogant to say he’s “something special.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t know what would be leading to such a warm atmosphere when he’s never gone out of his way to inject love into the shop. It’s always been a means to an end - first, to store his books and act as shelter and, now, as a source of income. Despite Crowley believing him to be sentimental, the shop itself is nothing special to him. 

Crowley, though - he was quite distraught when the bookshop burnt down. 

“But - no. That, surely, would be presumptuous.” Aziraphale doesn’t realize he’s started pacing, that he’s started speaking out loud, until he’s already doing so. His hands shake lightly, so he shoves them into his pockets. “Crowley, loving it so much - I mean, he’s a demon!” 

A demon who went against Hell - a demon who asked Aziraphale to run away with him - a demon who would bring Aziraphale a cupcake if he noticed that Aziraphale looked down - a demon, yes, but not a very good one, if you asked Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale, for a moment, pretends that he isn’t Aziraphale. He pretends that he’s a tourist who happened to come across a quaint bookshop in Soho. - Hhe had been looking for a bookstore, because he wants to read on the trip home, but the prices for anything at an airport are exorbitant. 

He walks down the street, and something catches his attention. A.Z. Fell & Co. - and a sign with a book on it. He really was looking for a _Barnes & Noble _, or whatever the UK equivalent would be, so he almost doesn’t walk in. 

He thinks about home, though, and his feet lead him inside before he can second guess it. 

And walking in - that feels like coming home after a long trip. It’s a hug - a warm, welcoming thing. 

“This is safe,” the store says. “This is safe, and if you mean no harm, you’re welcome here.”

Except the store sounds familiar - it sounds like Crowley in the garden, Crowley in Mesopotamia, Crowley in Rome, Crowley in France, Crowley Crowley _Crowley_ \- 

Aziraphale comes to a stop in front of the window, and he says, faintly, “I’ve been rather foolish, haven’t I?” 

He presses a hand against the window, and he wonders if this is why, over the last few centuries, he hasn’t missed Crowley as much as he would expect. Even during their longer absences, it never felt as if Crowley was far from him. To embed so much care, so much protection - Aziraphale hesitates to think of what he wants it to be. He can’t stand the idea of being mistaken when it’s something so very, very important. 

“I should call him. I should - “ Aziraphale turns away and starts rushing back to his desk. The rarely-used phone hasn’t collected any dust, but only because Aziraphale has gotten much better about cleaning recently. 

Before he can pick it up to dial, it rings on its own. Aziraphale, delighted and terrified in equal measures, fumbles with the receiver. Breathlessly, heart fluttering, he says, “Hello! Hi. I was just about to call you, Crow - “ 

“Aziraphale,” a voice - not Crowley’s - says. “I would like to talk. I’ve received orders from Heaven, and I think you would be interested to know what they are.” 

He swallows heavily. His heart, already racing, picks up the pace. “Michael,” he manages to say. “I - “ 

“Please don’t sound so troubled,” she interrupts. “This is mostly friendly.” 

“‘Mostly’?” 

“Assuming you’re not a danger to myself,” she says. “This should be an enlightening conversation. I’ve been told human ‘coffee shops’ are adequate for discussing business or pleasure. Would you be able to recommend an establishment?” 

* * *

Footnotes: 

24Considering the “plans” required for a celestial being to purchase anything consist of, “Want thing, snap fingers, have thing,” this really is a long time to work his way up to a plan.[return to text]

  
25He had, in later centuries, wondered if he was the first angel to wonder about right and wrong. After the apocalypse, he feared that he was the only one to ever do so.[return to text]


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watching Aziraphale has been fun. He’s fussy and kind and above all else, he’s funny. 
> 
> No one in Heaven is funny. Michael knows this, because she’s spoken to more angels than there have been hours. She knows this, too, because she went so far as to look downwards for company when centuries of dull drudgery became too much for her to handle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the dagon chapter was my favorite... this is a close second though. i hope you all like it half as much as i do <3

Michael would like it noted that she didn't expect to like the traitor. Her time on Earth was meant to be an easy job - go to Aziraphale, perform reconnaissance to determine why he survived their execution attempt, return to Heaven and report. 

Or, at least, that’s how she interpreted her orders. Her actual assignment after the Apocalypse failed to happen was... ambiguous, to say the least. 

Gabriel had always been the one to give instructions, to have strategy meetings with Metatron and pass along what their Mother (She, the Creator, the Holy Mother who Gave Them Life) would want their next actions to be. In the wake of their complete and utter failure, though, Gabriel has been quiet. 

Quiet. 

How strange it’s been to have silence, considering how much Gabriel has always loved the sound of his own voice. If it wasn't blasphemous to think so, Michael would think God had accidentally made Gabriel with far too high of an esteem for himself. 

She wouldn’t think that, though, because Michael is a loyal daughter. And because she’s loyal, she performs her duties to the best of her abilities, and she doesn’t question them. 

Despite that loyalty, though, she’s found out that she really likes their wayward, disloyal sibling. And if she was a little less loyal, she would ask Gabriel if they really had to keep trying to kill him. 

Watching Aziraphale has been _fun._ He’s fussy and kind and above all else, he’s _funny_. 

No one in Heaven is funny. Michael knows this, because she’s spoken to more angels than there have been hours. She knows this, too, because she went so far as to look downwards for company when centuries of dull drudgery became too much for her to handle. 

It’s something she’s asked their Mother to forgive her for more times than she can count. At least once a week, she prays and says, “Forgive me this weakness.” 

After the Antichrist reset the universe, she asked for forgiveness and thanked Her for Her kindness in the same breath when Hastur and Ligur arrived alive and well[26] to their normal meeting point. They were already cracking jokes before she arrived, and that day she laughed until she cried. 

Ligur was - not kind, because demons aren’t kind - tolerant enough to hand her a handkerchief then. “Dying wasn’t so bad,” he told them both. “After the whole horrific and terrible pain part of it all, dying was pretty alright. Like a nap.” 

Hastur hadn’t laughed, but he managed an ugly grin[27]. He said, “You should’ve seen Mike over there. She was all ready to dunk that bastard Crawly in his holy water bath. I almost thought she cared about us maggots.” 

Michael sniffed. “As if an angel would care about two disgusting worms - insignificant worms, even.” 

“Lookit that - we’ve upgraded to worms!” Ligur said with faux-excitement. He nudged Hastur with his elbow. “Think we can get to rats by the end of the century?” 

And Michael had laughed, and then Hastur and Ligur had laughed too. 

The truth is - an angel does care about those two worms. And she begs God for forgiveness for it, but she cares about worms more than she cares about angels like Gabriel and Sandalphon. 

As Aziraphale approaches her table - a tiny thing that is decorated with newspaper clippings and game board pieces, if she isn’t misremembering human culture too poorly - she thinks she could care about Aziraphale more than them too. 

Michael takes a moment to pray (“ _Dear God, our Creator, Divine Mother of All Things - forgive me my sins, forgive me my transgressions, and give me strength to follow the correct path._ ”) before she greets Aziraphale with a, “Hello. I ordered you a mocha. It’s what you were drinking when you and your human friend were determining how best to seduce the snake demon.” 

She waits patiently as Aziraphale visibly struggles to respond. He finally chokes out, “Do you mean to say - You’ve been watching me since Madame Tracy and I went clothes shopping?” 

“Yes. She almost had you buy that awful pink shirt, so I stepped in long enough to make sure you didn’t pick something completely hideous.” 

This is what Michael means by Aziraphale being funny - he opens his mouth, closes it, gapes at her, sputters, and still manages to take his seat with a straight back and a huffy pout. 

She covers her mouth with her hand quickly so he doesn’t see her growing grin. 

“I assume you haven’t been spying on me for the fun of it?” Aziraphale finally asks once he’s settled into his seat. His back is straighter than is likely comfortable - Michael has fairly good posture, but Aziraphale’s would put any soldier to shame. Besides which, Michael is barely on duty. 

“Well, not initially, at least.” She takes a sip from her macchiato to put off answering. When that goes on for longer than it reasonably should, she spits out her straw and sighs. “Gabriel doesn’t really know what to do now. He heard rumors that Hell was sending someone to keep an eye on Crowley, so he wanted someone to keep an eye on you. And I volunteered.” 

“Someone’s watching Crowley?” Aziraphale’s entire countenance turns alarmed, and he’s paling at a rapid pace. 

“No one who’s a threat,” Michael says. “At least as far as I can tell. Their power is so weak that I haven’t been able to sense them.” 

“Oh. Okay. That’s - “ He grabs at his chest and sucks in a breath. It sounds painful. “Okay. So, Gabriel wanted you to spy on me because of the failed execution?” 

“I don’t think Gabriel knows what he wanted. He just told me to watch you. Normally he’s much more… verbose.” 

Aziraphale says dryly, “Gabriel? Verbose? I never would’ve guessed.” 

And Michael snorts hard enough that she gets coffee up her nose. She coughs and laughs and has to use her powers to nab a napkin to clean herself up. The entire time, Aziraphale is staring at her like he sometimes stares at his customers - wide-eyed, bewildered, but not hostile. 

She’s still wheezing a little bit when Aziraphale says, “You’re acting rather strangely. Setting up this meeting, laughing at Gabriel - You’re drinking coffee.” 

“It’s a caramel macchiato,” she corrects. 

“A caramel macchiato,” Aziraphale agrees. “The last time I saw you, Michael, you were one of the angels coming to warn me against ‘falling too low.’ You were quite cross with me, if I remember correctly.” 

Michael takes another long sip of her drink and pretends that it wasn’t close to being empty. It refills itself obligingly, and she takes a second drag. Aziraphale’s eye twitches, and she smiles around the straw before letting it pop out of her mouth. “Aziraphale, those were just orders. We were supposed to rough you up a bit, scare you straight. This is a personal call.” She waves a hand at the room around them - the playful, cozy decor that couldn’t be more different from Heaven’s austerity if it had tried. 

“Is it? You haven’t told me why we’re here.” 

“I received orders from Heaven,” she recites. “I’m supposed to find out how you survived walking into hellfire, and I’m supposed to tell them.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t need more explanation than that. He had, once, been a good soldier. Like Michael, who’s always been the best soldier, he knows what words lay unspoken between them. 

“I see,” he says anyway. His hands curl around his mug, and there’s a sorrow in his eyes that Michael, unfortunately, understands. “What are you going to do?” 

“Well. Are you going to tell me?” 

“Of course not. I - I can’t do that.” 

“Darn,” Michael says, snapping her fingers for emphasis. “I suppose I’ll just have to keep trying. What do you say to once a month? Same time, same place?” 

Aziraphale takes a moment to process. When it hits him, his jaw drops and a hand comes up to cover his gaping mouth. Michael tries not to look too self-satisfied as she finishes her drink. 

“I. Yes. That’ll work quite well.” 

When he doesn’t stop gaping, she sighs. “What, Aziraphale? Can’t you just - what’s the human saying? Accept a gift horse in the mouth?” 

“I just - You’re disobeying? You? The eldest after the Betrayer?” Aziraphale scrubs a hand over his mouth. “It’s a little surprising, you understand. I’m not anybody special -” 

“We’re all special in the eyes of our Mother,” Michael says automatically. “She loves all of Her children, and we each carry a spark of Her within us.” 

Aziraphale gives her a bland look, and Michael deflates. “Yes, yes. It’s a little easier to believe that a less prominent angel such as yourself would rebel after ‘going rogue’ than it is to believe that the beloved, loyal daughter would bend the rules.” 

“It is. Would you care to explain?” 

Michael, strangely, would. She can’t speak of this to anyone in Heaven, and it wouldn’t be fair to talk to Hastur and Ligur about it. 

“God created me to wield a sword. Not just that, but to lead Heaven’s armies in battle when we fought against evil. Had the Apocalypse occurred as planned, I would have been a general. I would have drawn the first blood - that was my place in the Great Plan.” Her lips twisted against her will, and she carefully folds her hands to rest on the table in front of her. “I was God’s first soldier, Aziraphale. I’ve been fighting since the day I came into being.” 

Aziraphale nods. This likely isn’t new knowledge to him. 

“I’ve never lost. Even against Lucifer - I didn’t lose. He retreated before I could strike him down. Did you know that?” she asks, suddenly curious. “I’ve never told anyone that. Everyone assumed I was the one who ran away. I don’t know why, exactly, but I let them all believe it. I think part of me was disgusted that I could have killed my older brother so easily. 

“And now that the Apocalypse didn’t happen - now that the world continues to turn, and Heaven and Hell have another indefinite armistice - I think I’m disgusted again. I think I’m unhappy. If we weren’t meant to fight Hell, were they ever really the enemy? What have I really been fighting for?” 

Michael is afraid of what those answers are, but she’s never been a coward. So she swallows, and even though Aziraphale is looking more and more devastated as she talks, she continues. 

“God is brutal and cruel, but She is also loving and kind. I’ve always understood that dichotomy, but I don’t think I accepted it. I’ve assumed that I was meant to embody the brutality and cruelty - I’m a soldier. At my core, I’m a soldier above all else. But I don’t think I want to be, anymore.” 

“Michael - “ 

“Aziraphale, you’ve shown that there isn’t a ‘supposed to’, anymore. I’m supposed to be a soldier, but I don’t have to be. I’m supposed to listen to Metatron, but - if you didn’t Fall because you did what you thought was right, then I have a chance.” 

“What are you saying? A ‘chance’?” 

“I have friends who are demons,” she blurts out, suddenly meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. They widen before her, and she nods hurriedly. “I do. My best friends are demons. And if the Apocalypse had happened, I would’ve struck them down just as I would’ve any other demon. I would’ve let this world become a battleground for a useless, pointless fight just because it’s what we were told to do, and I hadn’t even experienced anything here. I’ve never had a drink before today, and it’s - 

“Aziraphale, a caramel macchiato is _wonderful_. And I almost never had one, because I listened to what Metatron and Gabriel were telling us to do rather than listening to what I knew was right,rather than trusting in what I know our Mother cares for.”

“Are you - I hardly think Gabriel - “ 

“No, of course not,” Michael scoffs. “Gabriel is a moron. He wouldn’t deliberately go against what he thought was God’s will. Honestly, though, we’re all morons for not remembering how much God cares for the humans. How much she cares for what they can do - It doesn’t make sense. She wouldn’t want them destroyed. You were right, Aziraphale. God wouldn’t want that. Our Mother is brutal and cruel, but she is _kind and loving, too,_ and I want to believe that.” 

Aziraphale says, “Michael, your hands - “ And is reaching out to cradle hers in his own. She’s surprised to realize that her grip has gone so tense - white-knuckled, and her nails are digging into her flesh. It’s strange, feeling physical pain, when she’s so rarely had occasion to be on Earth. Aziraphale carefully pries her hands off of each other, and he says, “I think you’re correct. I do, Michael.” 

“I want to believe in Her kindness. I want to believe that She would want me to be kind as well.” 

“I think She would,” Aziraphale says with the sort of kindness Michael yearns for. “I really do.” 

Sitting there, hands clasped within Aziraphale’s grip, is an easy comfort that Michael hasn’t had since Lucifer abandoned them. His body has large, warm hands that easily engulf hers. She can’t bring herself to pull away. 

“How did you do it?” she asks quietly. “You were a soldier too, once. You were a good soldier.” 

“I was,” Aziraphale agrees. He doesn’t sound proud, and Michael can’t - she really, really can’t - blame him. “I hated it. Even before I was strong enough to verbalize it, I hated it. There’s nothing glorious about war. And, you know, we all like to believe War was created by the humans, that the horsemen were all created for humanity, but that’s a dirty little secret we all keep. War is our sin.” 

“You stopped fighting. You left. And you disobeyed, and you haven’t fallen.” 

He chuckles, just a little. “It’s a bit of a surprise, isn’t it? I thought I’d wake up with red eyes or horns the day after Adam Young put the world back to rights, but here I stand.” He squeezes her hands briefly before saying carefully, “I think that, in the end, God has always known that I’ve acted out of love. I gave my sword away out of love. I tried to stop the end of the world for love. Every time, I’ve disobeyed, it’s been for love.” 

“You love the humans that much?” This is a concept that’s hard for Michael to wrap her head around. The humans are fine, but their lives are so short. She can’t imagine getting attached without going mad. 

“Well. I love the humans quite a bit, but between you and me, I didn’t disobey for them.” He glances around them, as if watching for an unknown audience, and then he says softly, “I did it for Crowley.” 

“The demon?” 

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale says, and suddenly he’s beaming. Like mentioning the Serpent[28] was the trick, he’s suddenly sunshine and daisies. It’s a little overwhelming, if Michael’s being honest. “My wily, clever snake. It took me far too long to admit it, but I’m - Well, I’m in love with him.” 

Michael asks, softly, “You are?” 

“I am. I don’t think I’d be half as brave without him. It’s terrifying, you know, not having Heaven to tell me what to do. Without him - Without him, I can’t imagine being able to bear it.” 

Michael has to add another sin to her next confession. 

_Forgive me, Mother, for my envy. For my want. Give me the humility, patience, and strength to overcome._

* * *

Footnotes: 

26As alive and well as demons can be. - In Michael’s experience, demons are rarely completely well. Hastur’s told her before that it’s very hard to move around with rotting flesh falling all over the place, and half of the time when they’re using magic it’s just to make sure their corporations aren’t falling to bits.[return to text]

  
27All of Hastur’s grins are ugly, so that is to say, he managed a grin.[return to text]

  
28Who, if the Great Plan was accurate, was supposed to be Michael’s first kill of the war. [return to text]


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dagon slowly leans in close, grin widening and those sharp teeth of hers glinting. Crowley pointedly doesn’t meet her eyes, so she turns her head so her lips are right against his ear. She gently whispers, “Why haven’t you been using your powers, Crooooowley?” 
> 
> Crowley, because he’s a moron, flinches. 

Crowley takes Dagon to his apartment. Not because there’s anything exceptionally delicious there, but because she hasn’t quite mastered the ability to go unnoticed by humans just yet. Her body is still just slightly too inhuman to pass as a regular citizen - her teeth are still scarily sharp, her face has a few scales scattered about, and she walks like a predator. 

He can’t reconcile her intimidating appearance and downright terrifying reputation with how gentle she is. She’s a demon, of course, so her gentility is masked with a decent amount of harsh nastiness. But for a demon, she’s downright soft. If her questions weren’t so invasive and probing, Crowley would be charmed by her curiosity. It’s refreshing to meet a demon who isn’t all doom-and-gloom, who has at least a spark of interest left in their burned out grace. 

She wants to see more of Earth. She wants to leave Hell as much as she can without getting a knife to the back. She wants to know more about Aziraphale and how Crowley fell in love with him. 

“When did you fall in love with him?” Dagon asks for the third time - this iteration spat out alongside half full of an egg roll. 

Crowley picks at his own meal. He doesn’t really care to eat if he can’t watch Aziraphale’s reactions to it. Dagon clearly enjoys what Crowley ordered for her, going off of the debris that’ve been flying every time she tears into a new dish. So far, vegetarian tikka masala has been her favorite. Dagon had licked the container holding it clean and let out a belch that wouldn’t have been out of place on someone twice her size. 

“Why do you want to know?” Crowley asks. “Does it really matter?” 

Dagon doesn’t bother to swallow before saying, “Answer this, or I’ll ask the question I know you don’t want to answer.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

Dagon’s voice reminds Crowley of a trash compactor. It’s miles better than Hastur’s, but it’s not something he envies her for. Like most demons that spend their time in Hell, her physical form is a patchwork of willpower and spite. She’s not as hideous as Crowley’s seen, but there are aspects that she can’t or won’t smooth over. Her voice, croaky and sounding like she swallowed shards of glass and washed it down with a truck’s worth of gravel, says, “Like you don’t know.” 

Crowley shovels half of his curry into his mouth in lieu of answering. 

Dagon slowly leans in close, grin widening and those sharp teeth of hers glinting. Crowley pointedly doesn’t meet her eyes, so she turns her head so her lips are right against his ear. She gently whispers, “Why haven’t you been using your powers, Crooooowley?” 

Crowley, because he’s a moron, flinches. 

Dagon howls with laughter. She falls away onto her back, sprawling across the couch they’re sharing. Her feet pop up and nearly kick Crowley in the jaw. 

“Performance issues?” she taunts. “Must be all that love you were going on about. You’ve gone  _ soft _ .” 

“That’s not it,” Crowley denies immediately. “What do you know? You don’t - That’s not it.” 

“Does your birdie know that you’re shooting blanks?” 

“Uh, first, ew? That’s a horrible - Where did you pick up that saying? You don’t know what curry is, but you know that? And second, he’s not a bird!” 

“‘S got wings, don’t he?” Dagon shrugs. “Bird. Birdie. Easier to say than the mouthful God gifted him with, poor sucker.” 

“His name’s just fine, thanks.” 

Dagon waggles a finger at him, sitting up and folding her legs so she’s sitting cross-legged. “Stop deflecting. I filed your paperwork for six goddamn millennia, and half of that paperwork was bullshit magic. ‘Today, Crowley used his powers to glue coins to the sidewalk.’ I remember all the stupid shit you reported, and I can’t imagine what you weren’t reporting… But you haven’t been doing anything for as long as I’ve been watching you. Almost a month and not even a smidge of magic.” 

Crowley says, “I’m cutting back. Frivolous magic, frivolous miracles - it’s like a diet. Need to slim down.” 

“You’re a twig. Pull the other one, won’t you?” She settles back against the couch arm so she’s facing Crowley. Crowley, in turn, refuses to face her. “C’mon. We both know you’re not choosing this. Why else would your kitchen smell like something died in there? You’re too human to want your home smelling like the asscrack of Hell. So what happened?” 

“Nothing happened!” he says loudly. “Nothing!” 

She grins wider. “Sure sounds like something. Does it have something to do with the lil spat you had with your angel?” 

“You - Of course you saw that. Did you really have to? You must’ve known for a while you weren’t going to -” 

Crowley jumps when Dagon grabs his head and forces him to look at her. She tuts and pokes his nose with the tip of her finger. “Crowley. Chickenshit, cowardly Crowley. You’re a runner - run your mouth long enough until you can run with those stupid runner legs of yours. And you think if you jabber on and pick fights, it’ll let you keep running away from what’s got you so damn scared.” 

He swallows. In return, Dagon grins with all of her teeth. Her grip on his head turns into more of a caress, and her rough voice coos, “Unluckily for you, my future relies on you being alive and somewhat useful, and that’ll be much easier to ensure that if you’re not a sitting duck. So you’re going to tell me.” 

Crowley is surprised to realize that this feels like a relief rather than an interrogation. He’s spent weeks pretending this wasn’t happening, doing his damnedest to ignore it and pretend everything was dandy. The minute he realizes that, he blurts out, “I don’t know. I don’t!” He insists at the flash of irritation that goes across her face, “One day they just stopped working. I don’t know why.” 

“What day?” 

“Little over a month ago.” 

“And what happened that day?” she presses. “Something new? Something… odd?” 

“I don’t know, it was - “ Crowley pauses. “Well. Aziraphale got new clothes. And he. Uh.” 

“And he what?” 

“Well. He told me he was going to start selling books.” Dagon cocks her head to the side. “After that, I got home, and things were going all wrong. Powers were wonky, and I couldn’t fix them. Haven’t worked since.” 

“What’s wrong with him selling books?” she asks curiously. “He owns a shop, doesn’t he? That’s the whole point of them.” 

“What’s wrong - Aziraphale doesn’t sell books!” Crowley points with every word for emphasis. He scoots around until he’s facing Dagon head on, and for more emphasis, he grits out, “He does NOT sell books. He hoards them. One time, I had to make a customer think they’d been in a car accident to explain how sore they were after Aziraphale stopped them from purchasing one of his precious Oscar’s works[29].” 

“Okay, so he’s doing it now. What’s the big deal?” 

“The big deal is: - it’s not right! If he’s just going to throw all that history away, start handing out the stuff that meant so much to him, what  _ does _ mean something to him? Huh?” Crowley, fuzzily, realizes that he’s hyperventilating. It’s fortunate that he’s not human, seeing as he can’t get enough air in his lungs, but he also can’t stop talking. “If he can just throw that away, what’s stopping him from just tossing me aside? I’ll be left all alone, and what’s the point of being up in the sky all righteous and same and  _ whatever _ we are if there’s no company. Stars can be millions of lightyears away from each other, but at least they’re together if you squint from down here -“ 

“That doesn’t make any sense. You know that, right?” 

“He’s all I have, and I can’t do this - this life, this whatever I am without Hell and without orders and without a plan - I can’t do that without him, and he’s giving the books away like they mean  _ nothing _ ! Centuries and millennia being tossed aside and left out - “ 

Just as he thinks he might actually pass out, what with the black flecks growing larger in his vision, he realizes Dagon is laughing again. His voice gives out as he takes in the way her eyes are tearing up from the force of her guffaws. She has an arm wrapped around his gut, and she’s shaking her head. It jolts him out of his heavy pants enough for his vision to return to normal. 

“You’re an idiot,” she wheezes. “Just. You’re so fucking stupid. How did you make it this far?” 

Crowley feels his face flush - with embarrassment or rage, he can’t tell. He snarls, “You don’t get it!” 

“I get it just fine!” She waves a hand at him, still laughing. “You’re afraid your boyfriend doesn’t love you anymore. Which is stupid, because I’ve been watching you for a month, and I can tell he’d believe you if you told him hellfire wouldn’t hurt him, really, just give it a taste.” 

“He’s not my - “ 

She cuts him off with a suddenly serious, “Just ask him. If you asked him, ‘Hey, do you love me?’ I guarantee he’d jump you on the spot.”

“That’s not how he is,” Crowley tries to explain. She rolls her eyes and starts dishing fettuccine alfredo onto her plate, clearly not believing him. “It’s not! Dagon, I’ve known him for six millennia. Him making these sudden changes - that isn’t  _ him _ . He takes it slow - Hell, he told me I was going too fast just a few decades back!” 

Dagon’s eyes dart over to him, and Crowley realizes his voice broke on that last sentence. He winces but says, “Look. I just want things to stay the same. I just want him to be Aziraphale. I don’t want to rock the boat.” 

“You’re really that afraid he’s going to, what, leave you?” 

Crowley, who still thinks about the wounds “You go too fast for me, Crowley” left at least twice a day, says, “More or less.” 

“If he’s the one going fast this time, doesn’t that mean something?” She waggles her fork knowingly. “Might mean he’s ready to catch up. You slowing down  _ now _ isn’t going to help your whole, ‘I’m madly in love with the not-bird,’ thing. Or with you getting your powers back.” 

Crowley blinks. “What do my powers have to do with this?” 

Dagon slams her plate down and turns to glare at him. “Do I have to spell everything out for you?” she bites out. “Your powers stopped working because you’re somehow even more of a coward than I thought. Apparently, if you don’t have your angel’s approval, you can’t believe in yourself or Hell or whatever it is you pull on to  _ do _ anything.” 

He opens his mouth to argue further, realizes he’d be lying through his teeth, and shuts it again. Dagon continues glaring until he’s silent for a full minute, then she picks up her plate and continues eating. This is probably the most graceful she’s eaten the entire night - the sauce only gets up to her cheekbone, rather than into her hair. She slurps obnoxiously while Crowley crosses his arms and thinks. 

And thinks. 

He had been furious when Aziraphale brought up learning to drive. It had felt like a cruel joke, considering the context. Aziraphale - forgetful, but also oblivious as ever to Crowley’s feelings and intentions - wanting to learn to drive. Offering to drive Crowley somewhere, as if Crowley hadn’t done that decades ago. As if Crowley hadn't been offering his heart up on a silver platter since Eden, really. 

Furthermore, it felt like another indicator of Aziraphale wanting to leave him. If Aziraphale can drive, that’s another way for him to not need Crowley. Even the thought, now, makes Crowley’s throat tighten reflexively. 

However, Dagon has a point. 

Crowley has rarely doubted that Aziraphale loved him back. Maybe not as much, or as truly, or as fully, but Aziraphale loves Crowley in his own way. He doesn’t think Aziraphale will ever admit it, but Crowley knows. He doesn’t think Aziraphale would deliberately mock him, mock what he was willing to give him back in the 60’s. 

What that means, then, is that Aziraphale wanted  _ Crowley _ to teach him to drive. He was asking Crowley to teach him - and he was offering - 

Crowley says, faintly, “I’m a moron.” 

Dagon snorts into her pasta. “You think?” 

“I have to - I have to go talk to him.” 

“Hold up, you’re going to fuck it up if you go alone. Wait until I’m done with this, and I’ll come with. I want more of this later, by the way. This is good.” 

“Why do you want to come?” 

“Like I said, you’ll fuck it up. Plus, “ she hollows her cheeks and sucks to pull a strand of spaghetti in, and she smiles around it, “I want to meet him. He must be a riot if he can get you this bent out of shape.” 

* * *

Footnotes:

29This is misleading. - Aziraphale had thought to trip the customer and then miracle the book away, but he hadn’t remembered how fragile humans could be. The poor man went tumbling into a shelf and ended up having an avalanche of books fall on top of him. No major injuries, but when he threatened to sue, Crowley stepped in and dealt with the matter. [return to text]


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale hadn’t expected this outcome - an archangel, quietly disobeying and even more quietly interested in the world. The world that only weeks ago she was on board to destroy. It’s bewildering, and his mind feels quite jumbled from the shock, if he’s being honest. If Crowley had asked him, “Odds on that featherbrain joining our side?” Aziraphale would’ve put a higher bid on Gabriel. 
> 
> Not that Michael would agree with being on any “sides.” Not yet, at least. She’s where Aziraphale used to be - knowing that something is wrong, knowing that she can’t be happy where she is, and most of all, knowing that there are shoulds and shouldn’ts but not knowing when they started to blur together. 

Aziraphale invites Michael back to the shop when it becomes clear she doesn’t want to part ways just yet. They had drunk enough coffee that, had they been human, they would’ve been bouncing off the walls for the next century at least, and she still had found other topics to ask him about.

For having been an angel essentially stuck in Heaven, twiddling her thumbs until the next time they needed a soldier, Michael’s remarkably progressive and even more curious. She had spent the second half of their conversation staring at Aziraphale’s cup until he asked if she would like to try a sip. 

She did not. A gulp or five, though, is a different story. 

“And it’s made out of beans?” she asks for the third time. This time, she holds her newly purchased travel mug up to her eyes to scrutinize it closely. Aziraphale, fiddling with the lock on the door, tries not to sigh. 

“Yes,” he says again. “Coffee comes from beans. Different beans than you must be thinking of.” 

“But it’s a liquid.” 

“Here we are!” Aziraphale says quickly, throwing the door open. “Let me show you around. Would you like a tour?” 

Michael nods fervently. “Yes, please.” 

The store is clean, as it always is now. It makes the tour rather short, as the aisles look near identical. Because Michael doesn’t know any better, she looks impressed. 

“And you created this?” she asks, awestruck. Her hands wrapped around her mug, a pale pink monstrosity that suddenly is jarring to look at when taking the rest of her appearance into consideration. A stiff suit, hair perfectly coiled on top of her head, and an inherent sternness that must come from being the Eldest Angel. And she’s holding a mug that Aziraphale had watched a number of silly, young humans carry in and out of that same shop they just left. 

Aziraphale hadn’t expected this outcome - an archangel, quietly disobeying and even more quietly interested in the world. The world that only weeks ago she was on board to destroy. It’s bewildering, and his mind feels quite jumbled from the shock, if he’s being honest. If Crowley had asked him, “Odds on that featherbrain joining our side?” Aziraphale would’ve put a higher bid on _Gabriel_. 

Not that Michael would agree with being on any “sides.” Not yet, at least. She’s where Aziraphale used to be - knowing that something is wrong, knowing that she can’t be happy where she is, and most of all, knowing that there are shoulds and shouldn’ts but not knowing when they started to blur together. 

She’ll get there, in the end. Just like Aziraphale did. Michael seems like she’ll be quicker on the uptake than Aziraphale was, considering she’s much less of a coward than he is. 

The bravery it must have taken her to reevaluate her entire identity after the Apocalypse, with absolutely no one to support her, is something foreign to Aziraphale. How anyone could do something so radical without a Crowley by their side is a mystery. 

He finally says, “Well, I opened the shop. Organized it, put everything in its spot, but the books aren’t mine, of course. I just sell them.” 

“No, I meant the - “ Michael waves at the shop in a rather unclear manner. “The feelings. It’s so _warm_ here. You did that?”

“Oh!” A laugh punches out of Aziraphale, and he shakes his head frantically. “No, no. That wasn’t me. That was. Um.” He flushes red. 

Michael stares at him uncomprehendingly. Silence passes pointedly, until she sucks in a breath, and her eyes widen. 

“The demon?” she says. “ _Your_ demon? He did this?”

“Well, I haven’t asked him, but I have my suspicions. I don’t see who else it could’ve been, after all.” 

Michael shakes her head - not to deny it, but in a disbelieving, incredulous way. “A demon capable of so much _love_. This building is drenched in it.” 

“Love is maybe a little strong to say, isn’t it?” He takes a few steps away, shaking his head. “Warmth, affection - “ 

“It’s love,” Michael says, and there’s a finality to her tone that, though millennia away from his time within a garrison, has him shutting his mouth and wanting to fall into parade rest. “There’s so much of it. If there wasn’t the stench of evil, I’d mistake it for God’s light. How could you possibly justify this as anything else?” 

Aziraphale’s face flushes red, and he has to lean against his desk, as his knees suddenly feel weak. It’s obvious now that it’s been pointed out to him. 

Being around Crowley has always been better than not being around Crowley, just like being in the bookshop has always felt better than not being in the bookshop. Clearly, what manifests as an aura of safety and comfort and care has, all along, been love. 

And really, doesn’t that make sense? Aziraphale thinks he’s known, at least for a century or so, even if he wouldn’t admit it. He’s known that he’s loved Crowley much longer, no matter how much he pushed it down and pushed it down and pushed until he couldn’t recognize it. 

For their safety, he wants to argue. Someone had to take Crowley’s reckless disregard for his own well-being into account. But also, thinking about his own ancient fear, he realizes how much of a role his own cowardice has played into his and Crowley’s dance.

One of his more recent works pops into mind: 

_I learned the steps so long ago, something of a two step and a waltz._

_One forward, two back,_

_Two forward, three back,_

_And you met me count for count for count._

_But now we're out of sync._

_You're stepping on my toes_

_While I drift too far._

_What are our feet doing?_

_Do we even dance anymore?_

“I just - I never noticed,” he eventually says, weakly. “It’s just... Crowley. It’s always been this way.” 

“How lucky you are to have had this for the time you were away from Heaven.” Michael reaches out and runs her hand along a bookshelf, smiling wryly. “Did you ever consider this is why you haven’t fallen? That your other half has been propping you up in the absence of divine structure?” 

Aziraphale stiffens against his will. “I hardly think that’s the only reason.” 

“No? You’re saying that being surrounded by all of this,“ she waves a hand across the width of the store, “didn’t keep you from becoming too bitter? Didn’t provide a buffer between you and the desire to… take the lift down?” 

“I - Well. I suppose when you put it that way.” 

After a short pause, Michael says, “You’re lucky, Aziraphale.” It’s not quite envious, but there’s a current of wistfulness running underneath her tone. It makes Aziraphale wonder what, exactly, Michael hopes to accomplish with staying on Earth. He still doesn’t have a clue why she agreed to come back to the shop. 

“I am,” he says. “Now, enough of that. Do you want to try some tea? It’s not quite as strong as coffee, but it’s pleasant in its own way. And I have some biscuits you could try as well!” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer before turning to head to the back room. “Help yourself to the books here - I’m sure there must be something that will catch your eye. Make sure if you look at any of the books on the desk that you put them back. Those already have homes, their buyers just haven’t picked them up yet.” 

Michael, perhaps overwhelmed by the sheer amount of options, immediately walks over to Aziraphale’s desk for a smaller selection to choose from. She’s running a hand along the spine of a special edition Jane Austen when Aziraphale fully leaves the room.

The upstairs, once a floor dedicated to extended storage of his collection, was one of the first things he changed after he and Crowley sorted out their respective executions. In a moment of bold insanity, he had lost himself in a fantasy where he and Crowley lived together, and in the same moment, his upstairs grew a bedroom, a kitchen, and a nook where two people[30] could cozy up on a plush loveseat in front of a fireplace. This was, of course, inspired by the night they spent together. 

“You can stay at my place, if you like,” Crowley had said. And Aziraphale had liked, and he had stayed. And when they had to part the next day, he wondered what it would’ve been like to stay longer. Or for Crowley to go with him. 

So Aziraphale has a bedroom now, as well as a mostly-functional kitchen, and a loveseat that would be gathering dust if he didn’t miracle away any griminess before it had a chance to form. 

The kitchen - lightly furnished, with barely more than a stove, an empty refrigerator, and some counter space - is his current destination. As a host, he feels obligated to provide some sort of entertainment and nourishment, even considering their recent departure from the coffee shop. His tea selection is lacking for normal guests, but Michael won’t know any better if he presents her with the cheap Earl Grey he had received as an obligatory gift from the neighbors some odd Christmases ago. 

That decision made, it’s easy enough to set the kettle going and toss some Jaffa Cakes on a plate. He then uses the time it takes for water to boil to think. 

Thinking quickly proves dissatisfying, as he doesn’t much like his options to think about - Crowley, Michael, Heaven, Crowley again, the future - so he instead reaches in his pocket for his moleskine. When his hand brushes against nothing but pocket lint, he freezes. He checks his other pockets - the other side pocket of his slacks, the back pockets, the small chest pocket of his shirt - and still, nothing. 

Aziraphale shoves the kettle off the stove before hurrying downstairs. “Must’ve left it on the desk,” he tells himself with a short, forced laugh.

His heart starts pounding in the recently-become-familiar way that signals another bout of sweating and general stress. His feet move faster in response, and then a little faster as he starts to hear his blood pounding in his ears, until he’s on the first floor and rushing towards his desk. 

Michael’s back is to him, and he doesn’t hesitate to less-than-gently nudge his way in front of her. 

“Sorry - Terribly sorry, excuse me - I left something here, you see, sorry, just - ” Aziraphale pats down the desk, using feeling and sight to try to pick out the small notebook that holds his vulnerable, exposed heart. He tries not to panic further the longer he can’t find it, curses himself instead for still not being as tidy as he would like to be, and freezes when he hears a strange noise behind him. 

He straightens and turns, futilely straightening his sweater vest. Bewildered, he asks, “Michael, whatever is the matter?” 

To his alarm, Michaels’ face is bright red. There’s tears rolling down her cheeks at an alarming pace, and the sound that had caught his attention was, in fact, her sniffling. She sniffles again, harsh enough that Aziraphale would be more accurate in calling it a snort. 

In her hands is his moleskine. Opened to some page - Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to guess - and clearly mid-read. 

“Ah.” Aziraphale’s hands latch onto each other in a parody of comfort. He clears his throat. “That would be. What I was looking for. Could I - ?” 

“‘ _Her Love has never felt conditional or temperamental,_

_But I have always obeyed._

_-_

_Her Love has always been available, and when I’ve needed Her, She is There,_

_But I have never strayed._

_-_

_Her Love is kind and giving, and She is Merciful,_

_But I have always been Hers._

_-_

_Her Love is a gentle weight,_

_But I have never dropped Her._

_-_

_She is Above All, and She is Beloved_

_But I have always loved those Below._

_-_

_She is Almighty,_

_But I choose Him._ ’” 

Michael recites it - rather poorly, if Aziraphale is being honest. She hiccups in between lines, clearly unused to her body having physical reactions, and her voice is hoarse and stuffy thanks to her tears. 

“Oh it’s - “ Aziraphale flushes red, heart still hammering in his chest. “Really, it’s silly. That was one of the first things I wrote, and it’s - It’s horrible. I should. Please, I’ll take that back now - “ 

“Aziraphale,” she interrupts, voice wobbling. “It’s - This is how you feel?” 

“I wouldn’t have written it if I didn’t - “ 

“No,” she cuts him off. “No, the poem - It’s lovely, but… the emotion behind it - the emotion pouring off of this book - this is how you feel? All the time?” She scrubs at her eyes. “How can you _stand_ it?” 

Aziraphale is, admittedly taken aback. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.” 

“The pain is overwhelming. How do you live like this?” She holds the book up and pointedly taps it with her free hand. “This is drenched in love, but it _hurts_ . It’s love for God, and it’s love for your demon, and all of it’s _aching_. Why does it hurt so badly?” 

“Oh.” 

Aziraphale wonders, if he had a thousand years, if he could explain. The love he feels for God is tangled up with his confusion over what humans have had to endure, as well as the careless treatment of their fallen counterparts who had once been comrades. That is all further complicated by Aziraphale’s complex beliefs in ineffability and fate and faith. His love for God has been tainted by uncertainty and fear since the day he gave his sword to the first humans. 

HIs love for Crowley - how could that not ache? Aziraphale wouldn’t know what it feels like to love Crowley without it stinging just a bit. Did he just step on a pile of nettles, or is that having to push Crowley away for the millionth time? Is that a bee jabbing at his chest, or did Aziraphale once again walk away from the only thing that’s ever mattered? 

And now: did Aziraphale slice his chest open, or is that the pain of him reaching out to Crowley and being rebuffed? 

“Can you imagine not knowing if God cares for you?” Aziraphale finally asks. He leans his hip against the desk and crosses his arms, and he turns his face away from her. He can’t look at her pained, confused face. “I want you to imagine what it’s like to love someone more than you love God. And imagine that same uncertainty. Add in the inherent blasphemy of loving someone more than loving our Creator, and I think you’d have some mixed feelings as well, my friend.” 

“It hurts,” she repeats, lost. 

“Yes,” he agrees, “but it’s a pain I wouldn’t give up. It’s a good kind of hurt. Isn’t it? You’re still holding my book, after all.” 

* * *

Footnotes: 

30Or ethereal beings. Or occult beings. Or one of each, even. [return to text]


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We were never going to escape this, were we?” he asks no one in particular. “Heaven, Hell. Above, Below. The future. Us. Who we are... We can’t just ignore it.” 
> 
> “We can,” Crowley manages to croak out. “Just - Let’s just leave. Now. It can all be just the usual. Normal.” 
> 
> “But this is our mess. Isn’t it?” 

Dagon says, “Looks quaint. Did you have to be so obvious in marking it, though?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Crowley says stiffly. 

”You may as well have pissed on the door while screaming, ‘Touch this and die, scum.’”

“I didn’t do anything other than some minor protections -” 

“Minor!” she guffaws. “Yeah. Minor. This place is plastered with ‘Beware of Pet Demon’ signs. It’s repulsive. But sure, this is minor.”

Crowley had, briefly, forgotten why he never spoke to demons. After he got over the whole “terrified for his life” bit of her arrival, Dagon has been entertaining, if not exactly pleasant, company. She’s been someone to talk to who knows about the whole Above and Below nonsense and who doesn’t want to kill him Previously, the only one in that category had been Aziraphale. And no offense to his favorite angel, but Dagon is leagues more insightful than he is. 

Hence their arrival at the store, where Crowley is preparing to tear his heart out and hope Aziraphale doesn’t stomp on it with his lead feet. He’s putting a lot of faith in Dagon, trusting that she doesn’t have ulterior motives outside of wanting to secure her own spot on Earth. 

“Look,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose and wishing that, rather than the annoyance he’s currently feeling, he had to deal with something so plebeian as a human headache. He pinches harder to simulate it before continuing, “Let’s just go in. You meet him, say a quick ‘hello, not here to kill anyone, leave me alone I’ll leave you alone,’ and you get the Heaven out so I can talk to him, okay? You’re not involved in this.” 

Dagon, dressed slightly better at Crowley’s desperate request, shrugs. “Whatever. I don’t want to stay there any longer than I have to. Your stench isn’t exactly pleasant to be standing around in.” 

She pushes past him as Crowley stutters out, “W - Why are you even HERE then?!” 

Dagon pushes the doors open in lieu of answering and calls out, “Yoohoo, any angelic scum lying around here? I’ve got something of yours. It’s annoying, and I - ” 

Things happen fast, after that. 

In a split second, Crowley can see both that the shop is still uncomfortably clean and that there’s more than one person in the shop. In another, there’s two angels rushing forward, blinding in their intensity, so like the stars they all used to rule over. 

He has enough time to kick the door shut before, ironically enough, all Hell breaks loose. 

Aziraphale shouts, “What have you done with Crowley?” and is wielding what appears to be the chair that matches his desk. 

At the same time, a different angel - a Heavenly one, still all sparkling and righteous, and Crowley’s barely recognizes it as _Michael, the Eldest_ \- has a _bleeding holy sword_ . A holy sword that she appears to be aiming straight for Dagon’s head. Dagon, blessed[31] with strong self-preservation instincts, is able to duck and slide underneath the attacker’s legs in a smooth motion. 

Crowley darts forward and yelps, “Crowley’s here! Right here, angel. Nothing’s wrong. It’s fine - “ but is apparently not loud enough over the cries of, “Foul BEAST!” and “Fucking feathery freak, what the fuck are you doing here?!”, seeing as Aziraphale proceeds to slam his makeshift weapon into Dagon’s skull. 

Dagon snarls, and as Crowley approaches the mess, he can see her teeth - already sharp, dangerous things - grow longer. Her eyes flash, and she snaps, “Watch it, birdie!” 

Aziraphale’s face darkens, and he rears back as if to slam her again. The other angel is stalking back, too, and readies her sword to stab and jab and do many other unpleasant things. 

Crowley grabs the chair from behind Aziraphale to stop its movement, clutching it with as much strength he can manage - a human amount, considering his current situation with his powers - but it’s enough to stop someone not really intending harm. Aziraphale turns just in time for Crowley to yell, “ANGEL, QUIT IT!” into his face. 

Aziraphale’s grip goes slack, and Crowley rips the antique monstrosity out of his hands. “Crowley,” he breathes. “Oh thank - thank Someone. I thought - She said she HAD you - “ 

“She just meant we were visiting!” Crowley says manically. “Stopping by for a ‘hello’! Wanted to introduce you to the new demon and, I don’t know, chat without having our goddamned HEADS blown off!” 

“Oh, you’re okay,” Aziraphale says, ignoring Crowley’s rightful panic. “Oh I was - I was so worried. Crowley.” 

The reiteration of his name forces Crowley’s attention off of the situation at hand and back to what’s important - Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale, who’s paler than anyone should be. Aziraphale, who’s breathing is heavy - who doesn’t need to breathe and therefore shouldn’t have any issues with it. Aziraphale, his angel, who’s sweating and visibly, clearly terrified and looks as if he’s - 

If Crowley didn’t know any better, he’d think Aziraphale was having a panic attack. 

“Hey,” he says, dropping the chair to reach out. “Hey, what’s - ?” 

Later, Crowley will realize it was an utterly moronic decision to forget about the non-Aziraphale entities in the shop. He’ll realize that as he was talking Aziraphale down, Michael had no such buffer. A soldier through and through, she never took her eyes off her target. 

Barely a moment before Michael is close enough to shove her sword through Dagon’s throat, Dagon smiles. Had Crowley been watching, he would have known that smile to be a perfectly demonic one, and he wouldn’t have been as surprised to hear the smashing of glass against the floor. 

When he asked Aziraphale for holy water, he had called it insurance. It shouldn’t have surprised him that Dagon had her own plan for a just-in-case scenario. And in the situation she was walking into, a spark of hellfire captive in an enchanted mason jar would do just fine. 

When Crowley notices what Dagon just did - when he realizes what that means - he does his damnedest to smother it. All of his will, all of his ability, every bit of creativity he has he puts into crushing that spark beneath his metaphorical boot until it’s metaphorical dust. 

As has been the case for far too long, nothing happens. The spark catches on the floorboards, and between Dagon and Michael, a wall of flame erupts. Michael backpedals fast enough that the human eye wouldn’t have caught it, while Dagon steps into the flame with that same eerie grin. 

“Aw,” Dagon says, kind as a hunter luring in its prey. “Little hot for you, chicken wing? What’s that human saying? ‘Stay out of the kitchen if you can’t take some fire’?” She shrugs. “Whatever. Point is: back off.” 

Michael’s teeth aren’t as sharp as Dagon’s - not by a long shot - but she bares them just as fiercely. “You disgusting _pondscum_ , I won’t have you ruin what he’s built!” 

Crowley, were he not living his worst nightmare in bright, technicolor HD, would have made a comment about how insanely stupid angels are because it isn’t a shock that Michael, with a running start, chooses to leap over the fire at its lowest point. It spits at her, fiercely hot and terribly bright, but she manages to evade it by a thin hair's width. 

Dagon, in turn, uses the tiniest bit of power to force another fiery barrier between them. Michael dances around, graceful even with soot marring her face. Fast, even with hellfire licking at her heels. It would make sense that someone who fought against Satan himself wouldn’t blink at hellfire, but the devotion to her self-imposed mission is still stunning in its intensity. 

He turns to Aziraphale and tries to say, “Aziraphale, you need to get out,” but his throat won’t work. Aziraphale’s face is lit up by hellfire, eyes shining but strangely dead. 

“We were never going to escape this, were we?” he asks no one in particular. “Heaven, Hell. Above, Below. The future. Us. Who we are... We can’t just ignore it.” 

“We can,” Crowley manages to croak out. “Just - Let’s just leave. Now. It can all be just the usual. Normal.” 

“But this is our mess. Isn’t it?” 

Crowley makes a token effort at forcing Aziraphale out. He tries to make his powers to work and send Aziraphale anywhere that isn’t infested with the one thing that could destroy him. It’s pointless, though, and Aziraphale quickly walks to Michael with a wistful glance back towards Crowley. 

Crowley feels helpless because he wants to follow. He so badly wants to follow Aziraphale, grab him, and toss him out of the store away from the flames, but if he can’t stop the fire, there’s only one person who can. He jogs off in the opposite direction, forcing himself not to look back at the only thing that’s ever mattered. 

Dagon is spreading and spreading the hellfire, trying to get herself over to a window - Michael fights to hold her ground, refusing to give a millimeter. It would be a standstill if fire didn’t catch so quickly and if both of them weren’t looking haggard from the cat-and-mouse chase they have going on. 

Crowley reaches Dagon and drags her into a half circle of hellfire that will shield them from Michael. 

Dagon immediately grabs him by the throat and backs him against the nearest wall. She roars, “If you wanted me dead, you could’ve just done it yourself! You fucking coward, I can’t - “ 

“I didn’t plan this!” 

“Didn’t you? You were looking pretty fucking cozy over there - “ 

“How was I supposed to know Aziraphale made nice with Michael? I sure as Hell wouldn’t have guessed we would’ve made nice before it happened!” He jerks in her hold and pleads, “Just stop the hellfire, okay? Call it off.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Michael storming closer despite Aziraphale clinging to her and trying to pull her back. His mouth is moving, but Crowley can’t hear him over the roar of flames, can’t make out what the words are through the heavy smoke. 

His own heartbeat ratchets up when he sees the way Aziraphale is straining to hold her back. She yells something at him, and he yells back. 

“I’m not calling it off until that psychopath stops trying to shank me! What do you care, even?” she asks, suddenly suspicious. “Thought you and your boyfriend were immune. Why are you freaking out?” 

“Can you just call it OFF? For fuck’s sake, the shop - “ 

“You want it that bad, you do it! Oh, wait. That’s right,” Dagon says with a scary, bright grin that gets closer to his face with every word. “You can’t! Poor pathetic cowardly Crowley, can’t get it up long enough to save his pwecious, widdle bookshop. Just set up shop somewhere else and piss on that, okay? This one’s done for.” 

Crowley spins in time to watch Michael approach the fire. He watches her pull back and poise her blade to thrust straight into Dagon’s back. In a moment of utter, complete, stupidity, he uses every bit of strength in his painfully useless body to shove Dagon to the side. 

She stumbles and hits the floor. 

This, in turn, leaves him with nothing to do but brace himself for a really, really painful death. In a second, he has a choice of what to do: he could squeeze his eyes shut and hide from the inevitable, or he could look at Aziraphale one last time. 

His decision here is no more planned than him falling in love with Aziraphale all those millennia ago was. His eyes search out his angel, and he has enough time to regret that he never showed Aziraphale his garden. 

It’s funny, though, because with how Aziraphale had been hanging off of Michael, he should have a perfect view of those blue eyes of his while Michael slides holy steel between his ribs. Instead, he’s staring at the back of Aziraphale’s head. 

He’s staring at the back of Aziraphale’s head, and he’s not in pain. 

Crowley chokes out, “No, no - “ as Aziraphale’s knees hit the floor. 

Michael looks half as horrified as Crowley feels, her hands still gripping the hilt of her weapon. She mutters something indistinct that could be a prayer or blasphemy. 

The fire inches ever closer, and one particularly bold flame has the audacity to creep closer to Aziraphale’s motionless form. It singes the edge of his sleeve - the new shirt he had been so fucking proud of - and Aziraphale whimpers. 

That, for Crowley, is too much to bear. A life without Hell is one thing; a life without a purpose, without Aziraphale, is inconceivable. He can’t imagine a world where Aziraphale is so hurt, where he’s in danger of not existing, and that means the hellfire will disappear. 

And it does. He doesn’t need to snap his fingers, or clap, or do anything he normally does to make Aziraphale laugh. Crowley breathes in, he breathes out, and the flames dissipate into nothing but a few wisps of smoke. 

Dagon lets out a choked gasp next to him, and Michael’s horror appears to grow. Crowley can’t imagine what he looks like and doesn’t really care, because all that matters is that Aziraphale is bleeding.

He takes a step forward. Then another. Over Aziraphale’s head, he leans close Michael’s face and hisses, “Get. Out.” 

Her eyes dart between the door and the sword in her hand.

A breathless voice says, “Really, it’s not like you need the damn thing right this second, do you? Let go, Michael.” 

Crowley’s legs tremble under his weight suddenly, and finally he looks at Aziraphale. 

The stupid, idiotic fool is holding her blade with both hands, somehow having gripped it tight enough to stop its progress. The blood pooling on the floor is from that grip, and it must be the work of a miracle keeping his fingers attached. 

The tip of the sword is pressing almost gently into the breast pocket of his vest, tearing a small hole in the fabric and staining it with the tiniest amount of red. Something - a note, or paper of some kind - is dangling out of the same pocket, dappled with a few drops of blood as well.

Crowley could _cry_ from the relief. Injuries are manageable. Injuries he can handle. 

“You are such a _bastard_ ,” he says, grabbing him around his shoulders and heaving him to his feet. Michael’s sword clatters to the ground, free from both Michael’s grip and Aziraphale’s body. Crowley derisively kicks it across the room after a baleful glare at its owner. “I thought you were dead!” 

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry that I had to step in so you wouldn’t be smote from existence,” Aziraphale says through gritted teeth. “What were you thinking? That’s a _holy_ weapon! Of all the stupid -“ 

“Stupid? From you?! You grabbed a sword with your bare hands, what exactly do you call that?” 

“Well, not all of us can use their powers to will away hellfire at the most conveniently dramatic moment like you!” Aziraphale retorts fiercely. “What in the world took you so long? If you could’ve done that the entire time, why wait so long?” 

“Excuse me, would you have preferred I leave it go?” Crowley waves a hand at the wreckage around them, then waves a second one for emphasis. “Let the shop burn a little more? Singe off the rough edges and the gross, nasty parts, since that’s what you’ve been trying to do recently? Oh yeah, just get rid of the bits you don’t like and burn it out or toss it aside or - “ 

“What are you talking about?!” 

“What am I talking about?! I’m talking about you changing everything and you mucking your shop up with cleanliness and customers and you clearly not giving a damn about our history anymore!” 

Aziraphale recoils, taking a step away. “You spent decades telling me to get with the times - to be more modern, to - to catch up to you! And now you’re telling me to go back to how things were?” 

He shakes his head, then nods, then shrugs, then throws his arms up in the air. “Things were fine! I just want things to be fine again. Everything’s different now, and I just want us to be okay! I want you to be okay. I want you to be normal because everything is strange, and things are _different_ \- “ 

“That’s right! They _are_ different,” Aziraphale says, a strange desperation coloring his tone. “Crowley, you must know that after everything, we couldn’t just go back to the status quo.” 

“Why not?!” he shrieks. “Why the fuck not? We were fine, we were - Everything was fine - “ 

Aziraphale shouts, “We were miserable!” 

The silence that follows his declaration is louder than his voice. Aziraphale, pale from blood loss and still clutching his hands to his chest, doesn’t back down. His chin juts out, and he repeats, “Crowley, we were miserable - _I_ was miserable.” 

It’s hard to swallow. He asks, “You were?” 

Aziraphale nods, as if that doesn’t feel like someone took a cricket bat to Crowley’s gut. “I was always so afraid, Crowley. Always. I’m afraid now, but before this, before everything changed, I was always so, so afraid that you would get hurt - That I would hurt you. That someone watching would. That anything we did would get noticed. Did that never occur to you?” 

“I mean, sure it did. Of course it did. But - “ Crowley’s throat bobs. “But you were worth it.” 

Aziraphale nods. “And you are! You always were, but now - “ 

“What about now?” 

“I - “ 

A cleared throat to the left of them startles both Aziraphale and Crowley. Aziraphale flinches, while Crowley jumps and spins to face the interruption. 

Dagon, pearly whites put away for the time being, says, carefully, “Seems to me like you two are having a conversation within a conversation. Very, uh. Onion-like.” She gives them a small, closed-mouth smile. “Think you might want to peel those bits apart? Get to the actual problem?” 

Aziraphale, after the slightest hesitation, says, “As loathe as I am to take advice from the demon who has nearly burnt my bookshop to the ground, she has a point.” 

Crowley asks, “You literally just tried to murder us. Why should I listen to anything you say?” 

“Hey now, I tried to murder birdbrain over there.” She juts a thumb at Michael, who is conspicuously trying not to draw attention to herself. Michael ducks her head and avoids their gazes. “How was I supposed to know you were too dumb to be a real threat? You almost let yourself get stabbed. Moron.” 

“Thanks. Appreciate it. I really love being insulted, did you know that? Besides which,” he spins back to Aziraphale, “what do we have to talk about? The last time I tried to ‘talk about’ things, you said that I go too fast. So which is it? Am I going too fast? Or am I going too slow because I don’t want to throw away the millennia between us? Which is it?” 

Aziraphale’s mouth opens. It shuts. His eyes widen, and Crowley can see his breathing pick up even with the space between them. 

“Well. I. That is to say.”

A horrendously awkward silence ensues broken only by Aziraphale’s harsh breathing. After a few pointed seconds, Crowley turns back to Dagon as if she’s part of what’s happening. “See? Nothing to talk about. Not a damn thing. We’re just peachy.” 

Another cleared throat - this time from Michael. She digs around in her suit jacket and pulls out a small, thick book. She steps forward just enough to hand it to Crowley, who takes it when she nudges it at him insistently. She clears her throat again, louder, and says, “I think what Aziraphale means to say, is that he already wrote it all out. You should read that.” 

The book he’s holding radiates... something. Crowley doesn’t think he can put a name to it just yet. He looks at Aziraphale, who’s still breathing and cradling his hands to his chest. 

“You wrote this?” He holds up the book. “All of it?” 

Aziraphale nods. Then, he suddenly bursts into movement and is reaching up to grab at his chest. Crowley goes, “Wait, your hands - !” 

The strange bit of paper Crowley had noticed earlier, stained with just a few specks of blood, is quickly shoved into Crowley’s hands. Aziraphale, hoarsely, says, “That one first. Please.” 

“What’s this?” Crowley takes the note, trying not to brush against the still-weeping gouges. He is, admittedly, a little nauseous at the sight of Aziraphale’s bloody fingerprint. 

“I wrote it. I made it - Created it,” Aziraphale pauses and, as if it takes all of his strength, softly adds, “for you.” 

He doesn’t know what to expect. Michael and Dagon are awkwardly standing to the side; Aziraphale is angry, bloody, and obviously in pain. Crowley himself is feeling as exhausted as he did on the bus home from Tadfield. That exhausted part of him doesn’t want to deal with this. That part wants to walk out, because if he leaves and ignores everything that’s happened today, maybe things will go back to normal. The dangerous intruders will disappear, the bookshop won’t smell of ash, and Aziraphale will still be mad, but he won’t make Crowley talk about it. 

The tiny scrap of paper, in his hand, is folded tightly enough that it has been turned into a tiny, dense square. It feels like a hopeful little seed, patiently lying in wait to be planted and fulfill its ultimate purpose. 

At the end of the day, part of him may want to walk away, but all of him has a problem with denying Aziraphale anything. So he unfolds what Aziraphale had so covetously guarded, and he reads. 

And then he opens the book, and he reads more. 

Somewhere between the third and fourth poem, Crowley realizes tears are fogging up his glasses. It clouds his vision and gets in the way of him reading, though, so he pushes them to rest on top of his head, and he keeps going. 

It takes him a few tries to find his voice, which must have run off when he read the sixth poem comparing his eyes to Aziraphale’s favorite stars. He says, hoarsely, “Angel, you’re the worst poet I’ve ever had the misfortune of loving.” 

Aziraphale, who had been impatiently shifting his weight around the entire time, puffs up like an outraged chicken. He says, “I - How exactly am I meant to take that?” 

“It means that if anyone else had written this, I would’ve mocked you mercilessly for having their book in your collection. Instead, because it’s yours, I’m having it all framed, and I’m going to read it every day. Even though it’s horrible.” 

“Honestly! I bare my entire heart - “ 

“And what a lovely heart it was,” Crowley says sincerely. “The heart is lovely. The prose needs some work.” 

“I’m new!” 

“Yes, and you still made me cry. Bravo. Keep up the good work, steady on, and maybe you’ll write something that will appeal to someone who isn’t madly in love with you too.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth opens and shuts a few times. He finally says, “Oh.” 

Crowley’s lips quirk ever so slightly. “There you are. We should get your hands sorted out now, shouldn’t we? It’s probably stinging worse than nettles.” 

Aziraphale admits, “I am feeling rather lightheaded. Michael, if you wouldn’t mind - ?” 

* * *

Footnotes: 

31Blessed, cursed. It gets a bit muddled up what’s meant when the subject in question is of Hellish origin.[return to text]


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s a good sign of their time on Earth if they’re already trying to blend in. I’m hopeful, for them.” 
> 
> Crowley fumbles with the contents of his kit, and, without looking up, he says, “For them. Yeah. What about us?” 
> 
> Aziraphale has never done anything but hope and hope and hope when it comes to Crowley. He says, “I’d say so. You haven’t run screaming from my, as you put it, atrocious poetry.” 
> 
> “Hey, now, I didn’t say atrocious! Horrible, maybe, and poorly executed, well - “ 
> 
> “Regardless,” Aziraphale interrupts brusquely. “I’m tentatively hopeful. I think we have some topics to discuss, though.”

Aziraphale hasn’t been injured to such an extent since the First War - the very, very first one. Angels against angels, kin against kin. Dagon and Michael’s (and, Aziraphale hates to admit, partially his own) misunderstanding had been eerily similar to the viciousness of that war, and his injuries reflect that.

In all of his time on Earth, even when he and Crowley were being tossed around the globe and pointed in such-and-such direction to start or stop or instigate or de-escalate battles, he hasn’t sustained more than a nick or two from a particularly sharp paperback. Physical pain is a human feeling, and Aziraphale’s experience with it is limited. 

This is to say: Aziraphale is rather dissatisfied and upset when Michael is unable to fully heal his hands. 

She stammers out excuses - perhaps it’s because of Aziraphale’s closeness to demonic entities, perhaps it’s due to the bookshop being surrounded by hellfire - but the shame covering her face says enough. She was always meant to be a soldier - not just any soldier, but a general. A leader. What use is first-aid for the one leading the charge, after all? Her responsibility was meant to be cutting as many enemies down as she could while leading her garrison. Healing wasn’t Michael’s area, exactly. 

Aziraphale knows this, but he says, “Ah, yes. Well, thank you anyway.” 

“Why are you thanking her? She’s the reason you’re injured in the first place!” Crowley, who took a seat next to Aziraphale the minute Michael started trying to fix what she tore apart, asks incredulously. One of his arms is wrapped around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and it’s so much warmer than Aziraphale could’ve ever hoped for. 

It’d be hard to explain to Crowley that, despite the wreckage they’re sitting in, he’s grateful for everything that just happened. So he says, “Oh, hush. We all were a little enthusiastic. Everything is sorted now, though.” 

“Except your bloody hands,” Dagon says helpfully. She had taken a seat on the floor nearest to Aziraphale - strange, considering that puts her right rather close to Michael, who’s crouching in front of Aziraphale. Aziraphale, personally, would’ve wanted to keep his distance from someone who had tried to cut his head off, but to each their own. “Those are still pretty un-sorted from what I can tell.” 

Michael’s face flushes red, and she says, “I - Um. I’ll go procure human supplies. For injuries. That should help, shouldn’t it?” 

“There’s stuff back at my apartment. Dagon, take her and pick that stuff up. It’s under the kitchen sink.” 

Dagon snaps, “Hey, why do I have to go? Your kitchen’s disgusting, and it’s not like  _ I _ stabbed him.” 

“Well, it’s not like she knows where my place is, so someone’s gotta take her. And it sure as fuck isn’t going to be me, unless we’d like some charred angel wings for dinner.” Crowley grins in a not-so nice way. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale turns to Michael and says, “He doesn’t mean that. He’s just a little bit tetchy. Normally, he’s asleep by now.” 

Crowley says, “It’s only nine!” 

Aziraphale, knowing how much Crowley enjoys his sleep and fairly certain he hasn’t changed his routine since Aziraphale stayed the night all those weeks ago, doesn’t deign that worthy of a response. He nearly clasps his hands together before remembering why, exactly, that would be a poor decision. Instead, he gives Michael a tight smile. “That all being said, I would appreciate it if you and Dagon could get supplies. I’m afraid my store wasn’t well-stocked beforehand, and now... “ 

Nothing more needs to be said. Hellfire had scorched out the innards of the store, and there wasn’t much left outside of ash. They’re sitting on the blackened floor, propped against a wall they had deemed stable enough. They’re all soot-stained to differing degrees; Dagon in particular looks like she was used as a chimney sweep’s brush. 

“Of course!” Michael jumps to her feet. “Of course, yes. We’ll be right back. Dagon, if you would?” 

Dagon mutters, “If  _ I _ would. Sure. Whatever.” She stands up and futilely swipes at her face, smearing ash and soot and sweat around. “You could just say that we were cramping your style, you know.” 

“Just go,” Crowley says, exasperated. 

Aziraphale feels bad for the two women. Neither appears comfortable with Earth quite yet. Michael sits strangely in a physical form, walking with a gait that barely touches the ground, while Dagon has a significant amount of rot etched into her skin. 

He doesn’t feel too bad, though. Michael will find her pace, and Dagon will heal from Hell’s taint the longer she remains on Earth. Their strangeness will fade in time. 

When the door shuts behind them, Crowley shifts and moves until he’s facing Aziraphale head on. He, gentle as ever, pushes Aziraphale to lean back against the wall, and he sits cross-legged in front of him. 

Aziraphale smiles fondly. “Were they really ‘cramping our style,’ then?” 

“You know it,” Crowley grins back. “It’s you and me, angel. Don’t need other people getting in the way of that. ‘Specially if they’re too stupid to remember that they could’ve just - “ With a light snap, a first aid kit appears in his hands. “Y’know.” 

“It’s a good sign of their time on Earth if they’re already trying to blend in. I’m hopeful, for them.” 

Crowley fumbles with the contents of his kit, and, without looking up, he says, “For them. Yeah. What about us?” 

Aziraphale has never done anything but hope and hope and hope when it comes to Crowley. He says, “I’d say so. You haven’t run screaming from my, as you put it, atrocious poetry.” 

“Hey, now, I didn’t say atrocious! Horrible, maybe, and poorly executed, well - “ 

“Regardless,” Aziraphale interrupts brusquely. “I’m tentatively hopeful. I think we have some topics to discuss, though.” 

“Do we? Didn’t we just do that? You love me; I love you - “ Crowley visibly swallows, but pushes on. He emerges from his search with a rolled wad of bandages and disinfectant. “Isn’t that enough?” 

Isn’t it? It’s all Aziraphale’s ever wanted. But seeing the way Crowley’s looking at him - eyes without his sunglasses hiding them, a small quirk to his lips, the remnant redness on his cheeks from his earlier tears - Aziraphale is startled to realize he’s always had it. 

“We’ve always been enough,” he says slowly. “But if that’s the case, then why haven’t we spoken in weeks? And why were you mad at me after we last saw each other?” 

“I wasn’t mad, exactly.” Disinfectant is applied, and Aziraphale involuntarily hisses through his teeth. The wounds pulse in time with his heartbeat, an unfortunate staccato that hasn’t quite calmed down to a resting rate. “Can you blame me for being confused? Out of nowhere you start doing all of - all of this!” He waves at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale looks down at himself. The sweater that he had been so proud of, the shirt that Madame Tracy (or Michael, he’s still not clear on that) picked out, the slacks that hide stains much more effectively than his old tan ones did. All of it is essentially ruined unless he uses a miracle. 

“‘All of this’ being…?” 

Crowley sputters for a few seconds. He then sputters for a few more, before saying, “The new look! The selling books thing! The clean shop! You finally made the second floor habitable, apparently, and you’re being nice to customers, and you’re - You made so many changes! Out of nowhere!” 

“It wasn’t out of nowhere,” Aziraphale protests. “It was - With the apocalypse being canceled, and us being on our own, it just. It seemed like it was time for some changes.” 

Crowley viciously rips bandages off of the roll with his teeth, but he’s still careful when he picks up Aziraphale’s hand to start wrapping. When the bandage is out from between his teeth, he says, “But these were things that were important to you. The books, your waistcoat - You made such a big deal about the waistcoat - we couldn’t go two minutes without you fussing with it, and someone forbid there ever be a stain - and you just. You let it all go. Just like.” He snaps his fingers again, peeking at Aziraphale timidly. 

Aziraphale doesn’t understand right away. Crowley changes his style constantly. He picks up new fashion trends and changes hobbies, and Aziraphale knows for a fact that he always has the newest, flashiest phone. Aziraphale had thought that he had been changing quite conservatively in comparison to that. His updated wardrobe and a bookshop doing what it's intended to do would seem quite tame to anyone who isn’t stuck a few centuries behind like Aziraphale. 

Or, at least, that’s what he thought. Perhaps it was startling to Crowley to see stuffy-old Aziraphale transform between one visit and the next. Perhaps it left Crowley feeling insecure, the way Aziraphale has always felt when Crowley shows up with the newest gadget. 

“Surely you aren’t - No. Are you saying that you thought I was going to leave you behind?” Aziraphale can’t help the startled laugh that rips out of his throat. “My dear, I was doing it for you. All of this, the newness, the shop, the cleanliness - Crowley, it was for  _ you _ .” 

He receives a blink in response. 

With his hands freshly bandaged, Aziraphale carefully tucks them into his lap. He looks away, and in a small voice, he admits, “I wanted to impress you. You’ve always been so flash and quick, and I wanted to - Oh, I don’t know. I wanted to show that I was ready to keep up.” 

“Keep up?” 

“You know. Go your pace. Fast.” He swallows and feels his shoulders round with tension. “It wasn’t appropriate, before, for an angel to be enamored with the humans so much. If I was too interested in what they were doing, that looked bad on me. And I didn’t want there to be anything linking us together, because if anyone knew that you were associating with me... Well.” He looks back and holds up his bandaged, stinging hands. “I can handle this, Crowley. You can’t.” 

It’s something they have never spoken about - the early, early days of Creation where Aziraphale had been not just a guardian but a soldier. Aziraphale would rather not talk about it if he has a say in the matter, and Crowley must understand because he doesn’t focus on that part of the statement. He doesn’t push, because he is so much kinder than Aziraphale deserves. 

“You mean all this time - the centuries of you pulling back, of sticking to trends for far longer than you should - “ Crowley’s voice breaks, “you were protecting me?” 

“I didn’t always do it well, but that was my intent, yes,” Aziraphale says. “And now, well. The book selling did start with me wanting to make sure we would be financially stable if Heaven found a way to cut me off from using miracles, or if Hell figured out how to stop you from using magic. I’m -” Aziraphale has to stop there because his heart hammers painfully when he thinks about the less-looming-but-still-present threat. 

“Well, that’s not the point. The point is that things are different now, and I realized that with the way things are, I could do more. I could show you that I wanted to be  _ with _ you. Actually with you, on our side and not just trailing behind. I could be right next to you, walking or running or going at whatever pace you want to go instead of holding you back. And the shop - “ He sighs, digging a toe into the ash near him. He draws a small loop before continuing, “Well. The shop is a mess now, but I cleaned it up because your flat was so clean. And I was hoping if I cleaned it enough, and if I made it a bit more homey that you would... maybe you’d stay longer.” 

“ _ I want you here /I always want you, but I want you here most of all/Among my things I will make room/Open the door, clear a shelf/A special spot, just for you, _ ” Crowley recites. “You wrote poetry about cleaning your shop for me.” 

Aziraphale bristles. “I wrote poetry about a lot of things! You make me feel - Ooh, you make me feel a lot of things! How am I supposed to - “ 

“That wasn’t - Angel, you’re breaking my heart here,” Crowley says, and suddenly his hand is on Aziraphale’s face and tugging on his chin, making him meet Crowley’s eyes. They’re watery again, and Aziraphale, with his lumpy, injured hands, reaches up to carefully brush a tear away. “All this time I thought you were saying, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’” 

“Never,” Aziraphale swears. “No, Crowley, it was never that. It was fear. It was always me being too afraid.” He swipes another tear away, and even though it makes his breathing speed up, he says, “I’m still afraid. I have no idea what happens next, what we’re supposed to be doing, and that scares me. On top of that, I’m afraid that Heaven will come back for me. That they’ll find another way to try to kill us. That Hell will call you back. That one day, because we’re no longer loyal, our powers will stop working, and what will we do then?” 

Crowley’s hands tighten on Aziraphale’s chin for a second, like a flinch. “Well, uh. If it’s anything like what it’s been for me the past… however many weeks… we’ll have to invest in some cleaning supplies. I still haven’t sorted out my apartment completely. Fridge is still disgusting.”

“Your… fridge?” 

Crowley looks at him, eye to eye, and then blurts out, “My powers stopped working. Just. Poof. Out of nowhere. Nothing at all. That’s why I couldn’t stop the hellfire at first. They haven’t been. Well, even now they’re still on the fritz.” He points at the first aid kit he had created. More specifically, he points at a box empty of everything except the bandages and disinfectant he had used. Aziraphale sucks in a breath. “Yeah. So.” 

“Why did they - ?”

“Dagon thinks it’s because I got freaked out by you doing all of the things you were doing. I am.” His mouth twists, and Aziraphale is surprised to see how ashamed he looks. “I’m inclined to agree with her. You, uh. You rattled me a lot, y’know?” 

“Crowley - “ 

“And I’m scared too, okay?” He pulls out of Aziraphale’s grip to stand up fully. He crosses his arms and starts pacing - back and forth, back and forth. He gets through three iterations of that before saying, “Everything you said, yeah, I think about it constantly, and I’m scared too. But when it’s with you, it’s less scary. And I thought I wouldn’t have you, and that was scary, and that made everything else significantly MORE scary, and it all just festered in - I don’t know.” 

Aziraphale says, “You’ll always have me. We’re on our own side, it was always going to be us, now - ” 

“Well, I didn’t know that, now did I?” Crowley snaps. “So, yeah. My powers haven’t been working, but you getting stabbed made me realize, well, if I can’t keep you safe, then what’s the use of me? S’not like I’m a good demon anymore. Wasn’t a good angel when I was one of them. You’re all I’ve got.” 

“And you’re all I want,” Aziraphale says earnestly. “And I’m not a very good angel either, but... We’re here.” 

Crowley shuts his eyes tightly like he can’t bear to look at Aziraphale anymore. “And that’s the thing, isn’t it? We’re here. So what are we doing?” 

“With…?” 

“With each other. With the world. Take your pick. What now, angel?” His eyes open, and Aziraphale sees the same exhaustion that Aziraphale has felt for months. It’s born from being afraid for so long, from being confused and frightened and not at all sure where you stand in the world. 

Aziraphale swallows. He says, weakly, “Well, I’ve been wanting to go to the beach. Now’s as good of a time as any, isn’t it?” 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Listen,” he says lowly. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, leans back on his heels, and eyes them up. After a pause, he continues, “Place better be nice when we get back. Aziraphale is the forgiving sort. I, assuredly, am not.” 
> 
> Dagon asks, curiously, “Why do you think you can intimidate me after I saw how you live?” 
> 
> Michael slaps a hand over her face in an obvious and ill-executed attempt to cover a snort.

Crowley says, “Yeah, so. We figured since it was you two overreacting that got Aziraphale messed up, and since Michael is useless and can’t fix him, you’re minding the shop while we’re gone.” 

“The shop?” Dagon asks incredulously. “You mean the burnt husk here? That shop?” 

“The burnt husk that’s burnt and husked thanks to you? Yeah, I mean that shop!” Crowley waves at it. “Look, you and I both know that thing isn’t collapsing anytime soon with the juice I put into it. It just needs some superficial, cosmetic work. You and Michael fix this up while Aziraphale and I are away, and we’ll call it square.” 

Dagon snorts and crosses her arms. Her eyes dart up to the A.Z. Fell & Co. sign that miraculously survived the fire. She’s cleaned up in the day since she stormed off[32], and strangely, it seems like her clothes are newer. Her hair’s pulled back in a little neater of a ponytail than it was before. “What makes you think I care if we’re square?” 

“Fact that you’re still here anyway. Why’re you here if you’re not going to clean up the mess you made?” 

“Wouldn’t’ve made the mess if Feathers hadn’t been trying to gouge out my eyes - “ 

“I already apologized. And they’re such lovely eyes. Can you blame me?” Michael pops her head out of the store and smiles sweetly at them. Dagon freezes, and Crowley sees the slightest bit of tension run across her shoulders. 

“Uh,” she croaks. 

“Oh dear, cat got your tongue?” Michael asks with faux-sympathy. “Or, well. You’re a fish. Cat wouldn’t really stop at the tongue, would it?” 

“I’m not a fucking fish - !” 

“Well, regardless,” Michael says, still smiling. “Aziraphale is on his way out, so finish packing the car. Got it?” 

She slams the door shut behind her, and Dagon stares for a long, long moment. “Crowley. You said. We’d clean it up? Together? She’ll be here too?” 

Crowley, with the utmost sympathy, says, “You poor bastard. Already?” 

Dagon turns with a snarl curling her lips. “Shut it.” 

“Now you know, at least.” 

“What?” 

“You kept asking when I fell in love with Aziraphale.” He nods towards the door and raises an eyebrow. “Quick, isn’t it?” 

“Shut. It.” 

The Bentley didn’t exactly need packing, considering all of Aziraphale’s belongings are hellfire ash and Crowley isn’t attached to much at all. At Aziraphale’s request, though, Crowley bought him some new outfits to wear, as well as supplies for them to relax comfortably at the beach. He had insisted that beach towels and umbrellas were absolutely required, as well as sunscreen. Crowley had never paid enough attention to his skin to know if the sun actually affected it or not. Because Aziraphale asked, though, he made sure to get the highest SPF. 

So the Bentley is packed to the brim with brightly colored beach supplies, and it’s absolutely ridiculous.

Crowley sighs like the lovesick fool he is and makes sure the umbrella won’t whack him in the head while he drives. 

Shortly after, the shop door opens, and Aziraphale walks out. He’s still paler than Crowley would like, and it rubs him the wrong way to see Michael fussing over him. She has the nerve to stab him, then has the nerve to pretend to play nursemaid - 

As if she’d do it better than Crowley. Honestly. 

He pointedly strides forward between her and Aziraphale to link Aziraphale’s arm with his own, taking some of Aziraphale’s weight easily. Pale and clearly still pained by his injuries, he still manages to smile brightly at Crowley and gently pat his hand. 

“Thank you, my dear. Let’s get on the road, shall we?” 

Crowley is helpless to do anything but smile back and agree. He carefully helps Aziraphale into the car, closes the door behind him, and turns to Michael and Dagon. 

They look an odd pair, standing there. Dagon, with her somewhat-cleaner clothes and neater ponytail, and Michael with a black suit. He thought angels tended to go for grays, but Crowley wouldn’t claim to be up-to-date on Heaven’s latest couture. 

“Listen,” he says lowly. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, leans back on his heels, and eyes them up. After a pause, he continues, “Place better be nice when we get back. Aziraphale is the forgiving sort. I, assuredly, am not.” 

Dagon asks, curiously, “Why do you think you can intimidate me after I saw how you live?” 

Michael slaps a hand over her face in an obvious and ill-executed attempt to cover a snort. Crowley kindly pretends not to notice, gives them both a once-over, and clucks his tongue. “This is important. You think we’d trust just anyone with the shop?” 

It’s a challenge and a test and a gauntlet being thrown all-in-one. A three-for-one, in fact. Dagon clearly gets it: this is Crowley saying that their performance will be reflected in the amount of Earthly-support they’ll get from Aziraphale and Crowley. Michael, on the other hand, straightens up. 

Clearly proud, she says, “Well, we are certainly planning on being worthy of that trust. Aren’t we, little guppy?” 

Dagon’s head whips to the side. “I’m not a GUPPY - !” 

Crowley says, “Yeesh, you’re disgusting. Don’t stink the place up with your bad flirting, please,” and quickly darts into the driver’s seat to avoid retribution for the comment. The Bentley, ever faithful now that its engine is running demonic gasoline again, starts before he’s fully closed the door. It takes off right after, and Crowley sticks his tongue out at the rear view mirror in hopes their house sitters will notice. 

Going off of Michael’s visible disgust, Crowley thinks he managed. He snickers just a teeny bit, but that’s enough to set Aziraphale’s tutting off. 

“Now really. They’re doing us a favor, you know. You could be a little more polite about it.” 

“Where’s the fun in that? Besides,“ he runs a hand down his chest and raises an eyebrow. “might not be on Hell’s payroll anymore but still a demon. Mischief and anarchy are sorta my schtick.” 

The beginning bit of banter sets the tone for their trip. No car ride is very long with Crowley at the helm, really, but this one he savors a bit more. Takes it a bit slower than he normally would. If pressed, he’d glance at the bandaged hands of his passenger and admit that he was focusing on making the ride smoother rather than faster for once. 

Better for his stomach, really. 

Aziraphale points out every interesting sight he sees on the way to the coast - a phenomenally large dog being walked by a downright tiny human, a particularly old tree, a bakery they somehow haven’t managed to buy from just yet, other interesting cars - and Crowley laps it up. Like someone starved and dehydrated left for death in the desert, he listens and feigns interest in the tiny wonders, and most of all, he keeps some measure of attention on Aziraphale the entire way there. 

Aziraphale, with his needlessly flowery, utterly horrendous poetry. Aziraphale, with his brave and wounded hands that saved Crowley’s life. Aziraphale, who admitted to loving Crowley and wanting him to move into the shop. 

Aziraphale, who as the drive goes on, appears to get more and more stressed. Crowley isn’t sure if Aziraphale himself is aware of the way he’s recently started to let his body’s physical needs and bodily functions get the better of him - the way his face reddens, his breath quickens, and his voice gets faster and louder. In an angel who used to suppress those reactions in some misguided attempt to appear professional, it’s pathetically obvious when he starts to overthink. It’s only taken the day since being reunited for Crowley to learn Aziraphale’s new stress indicators, and that is what has him parking hurriedly once they arrive at their destination. 

Crowley kills the engine, turns in his seat so he’s facing Aziraphale, and asks, “What’s wrong?” 

Aziraphale, because he’s a poor liar at the best of times, squeaks, “Nothing, nothing! Just fine. Perfectly fine.” 

“You’re full of it. C’mon, look at you.” He reaches out and (carefully, like he’s handling a single strand of the most delicate spider silk) picks up Aziraphale’s hands. Pointedly, he raises an eyebrow at the way they’re trembling. “Talk to me.” 

“I’m just. Well.” He dithers and hems and haws, then finally admits, “I suppose I spent so long worrying about us that it’s rather hit me all at once that there’s individuals still somewhat loyal to their respective offices back at home. We’re putting a great deal of trust in them not to report back anything that could lead to an untimely demise. And that’s not even - I mean, you asked it best.” Aziraphale leans his head back against the seat and asks, forlornly, “What now?” 

What now indeed. The elephant in the room, “What now?”, that they had thrown a blanket called “Let’s get into a stink with each other instead of dealing with the Real Issue” over in a poor attempt at feigning ignorance. 

Crowley slides the keys out of the ignition and into his pocket. He says, “Well, for now, we’re going to the beach. You wanted a beach day, so here we are. The beach. Sun, water, fresh air, probably more seagulls than people…” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he gets out of the car and starts loading his arms up with the supplies he had brought. Aziraphale makes a halfhearted gesture at grabbing some of the bags, but Crowley hisses at him, “You’re _injured_ , it’d just be pathetic if you tried to carry anything. Go, I don’t know, go pick a spot for us to set up at. Or change. Are you staying in that the entire time, or did you bring a bathing suit?” 

Aziraphale holds his hands up innocently and says, “Okay, fine. I’ll go find us a spot. I’ll head down on the left I think.” 

Crowley waves him off, and Aziraphale is successfully shooed. When Aziraphale’s far enough away that he falls out of sight, Crowley leans against the car and takes in as deep a breath as he can manage. Then he takes another. 

What now? Crowley’s answer has always been, “Well, whatever Aziraphale wants. I’m just along for the ride and company.” If Aziraphale has a course, then Crowley would follow him anywhere. 

Aziraphale doesn’t, though. No course, no ideas, no plans - nothing. His anxiety fuels Crowley’s, which Crowley had thought fizzled out with their reconciliation. 

A reconciliation for a stupid, stupid disagreement borne from the fear of losing Aziraphale - something that had occupied Crowley for weeks. A life without Aziraphale, the only person he’s ever loved so much, is obviously inconceivable. But underneath that, Crowley doesn’t know, practically, what he would do without Aziraphale. This late in the game, it’s been millennia of serving Hell and, when possible, serving Aziraphale[33]. 

A life without Hell is already strange and terrifying enough - A life without Aziraphale would, in essence, destroy him, for more reasons than how much he cares for him. Hence the strong response[34] to the oddness in Aziraphale’s behavior. 

Aziraphale, his angel and the star that’s always guided him. He hasn’t guided him home, necessarily, but Crowley’s behavior has been cut and molded and shaped by Aziraphale and his love for Aziraphale and Aziraphale’s own behavior. Which, really, isn’t a surprise considering how infrequent Crowley really spoke to anyone Downstairs since he was stationed on Earth. 

Could anyone really blame them for latching onto each other? Crowley thinks they’re like those interlaced trees - the ones that grow right near each other and twist and curve and eventually become a single entity defined by the way they’ve twined around each other.

Crowley rather likes the image that brings to mind, as it’s much preferable to any figures of speech with astronomy. He likes it enough that it shakes him out of his momentary terror. He takes another breath, shuts the car door, and he starts looking for where Aziraphale went off to. 

* * *

Footnotes: 

32Upon realizing that Crowley had sent her and Michael on a goosechase for supplies in his apartment that didn’t exist, Dagon took a long walk to cool off from the entire mess that was yesterday. [return to text]

  
33Serving him food, mostly, but Crowley long ago accepted that Aziraphale could put a glass of holy water in front of him and Crowley would take it like a shot if he only asked. [return to text]

  
34He means “overreaction.” [return to text]


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Humans live with uncertainty everyday. We might not be humans, but we live like them, and like jellyfish, we can live alongside them. We can live with this uncertainty too, can’t we?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: i'm shameless and i did include an author cameo in this, based on my trip to the beach w/my friends last year. i'm the one who gets beaten by the ocean while her friends laugh and if that ain't a metaphor for my life idk what is tbh

It’s a lovely day, and Aziraphale thinks he’s rarely felt worse in his life. 

What a shame that Crowley went to so much trouble to indulge Aziraphale in a whim, and Aziraphale is too selfishly terrified to properly enjoy it. The beach is beautiful and downright picturesque. A number of other people have decided to spend the uncharacteristically sunny day[35] there as well, and many of them are already having a blast. Children are running around, shrieking and wailing, while their parents pretend not to hear them and bury their noses in dog-eared paperbacks. 

If Aziraphale wasn’t feeling so horrifically anxious and terrible, he thinks he’d quite like having a go at writing one of those paperbacks. Something… not trashy, necessarily, but a little lighter than what he’s been working on. He thinks he’d like a break from poetry. Crowley’s held onto his small moleskine, so Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to continue with anything he started regardless. He’s been incredibly touched on the occasions he’s seen Crowley poking his nose in it - at least four times since the day before. 

Maybe that’s why he’s been so uninterested. He wrote those poems for Crowley, ultimately, and now Crowley has them. The end of an era, essentially. 

A trip to the beach was an idea brought on by that end. He had romantic notions of a weekend getaway - he and Crowley lying on the beach, looking at the stars, and Aziraphale scribbling furiously while Crowley slept. Inspired by the ocean or the way the Crowley’s hair looked in the sun, unhindered by the dull weather that normally characterizes their time in the UK, Aziraphale would write the first few chapters of a quaint love story. He’d show it to Crowley the next day on the beach, and Crowley would laugh but read it a second and third time. 

It’d start a new, happier time, where they were carefree and happy. Aziraphale could write as many trite romances as he wanted while maybe living out the only meaningful romance he cared about. 

Instead, Aziraphale’s thoughts have been running in circles since Crowley said, “What now?” 

Angels don’t make decisions. 

Angels don’t make anything, really, but they most certainly don’t make decisions. They follow the plan that’s been handed down since God started Creation in the first place. Questioning is one (unforgivable) thing; choosing to do something else is another matter entirely. 

It’s why he had been reticent to running away with Crowley. It’s why it took him so long to reconcile his desire for humanity to survive with Heaven’s apparent apathy. In his heart, he knew it was wrong to destroy the world, and it had taken so much longer for him to realize that the plan that had been so highly touted didn’t agree with him. 

He’s made precious few decisions in his life. The notable ones include choosing to give away his sword, lying to Heaven about his arrangement with Crowley, and going against the Great Plan. His latest one - the choice to trick Heaven and Hell, to slyly switch places with Crowley - has him more lost now than ever. 

Aren’t all of those choices enough? Why should Aziraphale have to keep choosing? He even went above and beyond and chose to take up a new hobby, to change for Crowley, to try and move forward despite the fear that threatened to cripple him. 

What now? The answer is: Aziraphale doesn’t know, and he’s terrified of making the wrong choice. He took a chance on the Apocalypse being thwartable, and he doesn’t trust his odds a second time around. 

If only he were feeling particularly inspired. This dilemma would make for an exciting conflict in a novel. 

“Here alright, then?” 

Aziraphale startles at Crowley’s voice. “Oh! Yes, here’s just fine. We have a good view of the water this way, don’t we?” 

“Sure, whatever you want. Nice suit, by the way.” 

Aziraphale looks down at himself. His suit is a pale blue set of trunks - nothing particularly exciting. He looks up at Crowley, whose gaze appears to be locked on Aziraphale’s navel. It’s hard to tell with his sunglasses, though, so he might just be looking at the ground. “Thank you? I just miracled it. Nothing spectacular.”

Crowley says, “No, ‘course not, s’just - You look nice. Think this is the least amount of clothing I’ve seen on you in centuries.” 

Aziraphale blinks. Then his traitorous, absolutely horrible, really body flushes. He feels heat overtake his face, and he can’t stop the reflexive way he ducks his head. “Thank you?” he repeats on a squeak. 

Crowley shakes himself and his head, dropping the supplies on the sand. He must’ve changed on the way over, as he’s equally bared. His trunks are more modern than Aziraphale’s own, coming down to his knees and slightly baggier. Strange, considering Crowley’s usual preference for form-fitting, slinky clothes. 

Aziraphale watches helplessly while Crowley digs the umbrella into the sand, then lays out a towel for each of them. His own is black, of course, and Aziraphale’s is a pale beige. With a dramatic swoop of his hand, Crowley says, “Your throne, angel.” 

Aziraphale smiles wryly as he takes his seat. “A throne fit for a king. Thank you, my dear.” 

Crowley follows, and for a long few minutes they sit and listen to the beach. Waves crashing, children screaming, gulls shrieking - and for Aziraphale, louder than everything else, his own heartbeat. 

How inconvenient for his body to start acting without his input. Terrifying, automatic reactions like sweating and heart palpitations and heavy breathing - how do humans handle this lack of control? It’s undignified and greatly distressing, enough so that he’s started to wonder if Adam took a few liberties when he created this new body for Aziraphale. If it isn’t just a tad bit more human than he’d care for. 

He swallows, shifting so he can lean his weight back on his hands. Looking out at the ocean, he tries to remember if it seemed so large and daunting before the world started ending. 

Next to him, Crowley moves, and his arm stretches out just far enough that he can rest his hand on top of Aziraphale’s. Somehow, even when it’s warm and sunny, his hands are ice-cold. Aziraphale shivers, and his breath catches in his throat. More automatic, thoughtless responses he can’t stop. 

It’s very nice, though. Feeling Crowley’s hand on top of his own. They’ve rarely touched, even after the dramatic hullabaloo back at the shop. Six millennia of restraint and distance unfortunately won’t be overcome in a few days. Perhaps not even in a few months or years. This, though, is nice. 

He leans in closer to Crowley, just a smidge, and Crowley leans back. 

It’s easier to get lost in the lazy, comfortable energy of the day after that. 

Crowley’s pulse on top of his own soothes his own until Aziraphale is comfortably drifting in a wave of calm. He watches a family build a sandcastle, only for it to be destroyed a scant three seconds after the harried father runs off to get a camera. Another group buries their friend in the sand, laughing uproariously when said friend bursts free and throws sand at each of them. A mother and her child dig a small hole and bury a seashell, giggling together. She leans down to brush a kiss against the child’s brow, smiling into their hair. 

Aziraphale wonders what they’ve buried it for. Perhaps a human superstition regarding wishes. He’s never kept track of those well. The only one he ever paid attention to was when humans would wish on shooting stars. 

He’s halfway through deciding what he would wish for if he believed in such things when Crowley snorts next to him. 

“Look at those morons. They’re probably getting all torn up.”

“Who?” 

Crowley points at a crew that’s standing in the water, laughing loudly. “Them. Watch them when a wave comes in.” 

They’re a young crowd, likely within their first year or so of university. Two are determinedly splashing each other, and the other two are watching the ocean keenly. When a large wave starts to break, they holler for the other two. The water fight ends, and they all put their backs to the wave coming in. 

The ocean pushes - no, shoves - them forward. Like their bodies are surfboards, they ride the wave into the coast. One of them with (likely dyed) silver hair gets pulled under the wave almost immediately. Her friends, once they’re on the coast, double over with laughter as she fails to get her feet under her. 

The next few waves keep trying to pull her back. Each time, she stands up, coughs up some water and rubs some sand out of her face, wobbles, and then the next wave drags her back under the water. 

Eventually, after a significant amount of struggling, she crawls her way far enough away from the tide. She pants, laying on her back with an arm tossed over her eyes, and Aziraphale wonders if she’s well. 

He’s a moment away from miracling her some help when her friends finally come forward to help her up. They’re still chuckling, but they look her over and hiss in sympathy at the scrapes she sustained. This girl, wonder of wonders, is laughing as well by the time she stands up. 

Aziraphale watches them head back for more, and he says, “I want to do that.” 

“Sorry?” 

“Let’s go in the water. I want to know why they’re doing that.” 

“Uh, because they’re stupid humans who find entertainment in the dumbest things?” 

Aziraphale says, “Well, I want to do that dumb thing. You don’t have to come - “ 

Crowley’s already standing up. “No, no. Do you even know how to swim? Someone has to make sure you don’t drown. Not to mention you’re still injured.” He holds out a hand and heaves Aziraphale to his feet. 

“Michael’s a soft touch. She barely grazed me, dear.” 

“Yeah, whatever, but don’t come crying to me for any more scrapes you get from this, you get me? Sand isn’t exactly nice to delicate skin. Actually, should we rebandage your hands, you think? Wait a sec - ” 

“Come on!” Aziraphale urges, using the grip he already has to drag Crowley forward. Crowley stumbles but quickly follows. 

The water is just cool enough to be refreshing, warm enough that it’s not a shock to run in. Crowley gives a startled laugh, and Aziraphale tucks that noise right next to his heart. He doesn’t make Crowley give an honest laugh very often. 

He doesn’t stop pulling Crowley along until they’re a little over hip-deep in the water. 

Crowley, glasses still in place, raises an eyebrow. “What now, angel?” 

“Now - “ Aziraphale hums. Then, with just a tiny spark of mischief, he flicks some water at Crowley. “Well, we have to wait for a good one, don’t we?” 

Water droplets cling to Crowley’s glasses, and one drips off of his gaping mouth. “Are you - Do you want to start this?” 

Aziraphale shrugs innocently. “Oh, I’m afraid I have _no_ idea whatsoever of what you’re speaking of. Not even a little.” 

Crowley bares his teeth in a wide grin. “No? Not even a little?” 

Thus starts the first ever angel-demon water war[36]. 

Expletives are yelled, water is flung, miracles are used frivolously, and all-in-all it is quite the ridiculous showing. Aziraphale shrieks when Crowley has some seaweed brush against his ankle, only to push at least a pint of water straight into his mouth. This then causes Aziraphale to leap at Crowley and attempt to forcefully dunk him under the water. 

“You’re not as heavy as you look,” Crowley boasts, holding Aziraphale up with one arm. “Just try - “ 

“Oh!” Aziraphale shoves Crowley excitedly. “That looks like a good wave! Hurry, hurry - “ 

“Yes, fine, okay. You know this is going to hurt? This is going to hurt and be stupid. Why are we bothering - ?” 

“Here it comes!” 

The wave crashes over them, and Aziraphale is immediately pulled underwater. He can’t see Crowley as he tumbles within the ocean. It spins him until he’s dizzy, and for a moment he’s too frazzled to react. 

It’s darker under the water. He can’t see well at all, and trying to figure out which way is up and down when he keeps rolling-rolling-rolling is impossible. He can’t see, he can’t find his feet, and terror claws at his throat - 

And then suddenly he’s being dragged along the shore. Seashells and sand drag along his skin, and it’s painful. Especially on his hands that scrabble to claw him above the water. Somehow, he ended up belly down, so with one final push he breaches the water and coughs out a glob of water. 

His ears ring for a second, pain and residual fear clinging to him. He coughs again as Crowley surfaces next to him, looking disgruntled. His sunglasses are askew on his face, and he snorts some water out of his nose. 

Aziraphale laughs. He doesn’t know why, but a strange sense of giddiness is rising up. 

“Happy then? Let’s go back - “ 

“Again,” he demands. Aziraphale gets to his feet, nearly tipping over when a smaller wave crashes against his calves, and he jogs back into the deeper water. 

He doesn’t have to turn around to know that Crowley is gaping and sputtering. He finally manages to gripe with semi-intelligible thoughts like, “Aziraphale, seriously?” and “That wasn’t pleasant!” and “Why are you going back - ? Fine, fine. Whatever.“

Crowley trudges through the water after Aziraphale, grumbling the entire way. Aziraphale ignores him in favor of readying himself for the next go. 

This one is stronger than the last one. Aziraphale yelps and swallows a couple mouthfuls of water. Spinning again. Up is down, and down is up, and his body panics the longer he goes without air. 

Well. He panics. 

He can blame his body for a lot, but in the end, it takes its cues from Aziraphale. And Aziraphale is unnerved and scared by the way the ocean tosses him around like nothing. Like nothing Aziraphale does matters, really. 

It’s thrilling. For the first time in weeks, his heart beats faster not out of anxiety, but instead out of excitement. It’s a fun kind of fear. 

Aziraphale realizes, in this moment, how much he’s never understood humans. Despite his best efforts, he never saw how terrifying their existences were until this moment. 

He rips himself up out of the water and is immediately coughing and choking and laughing. On his hands and knees, palms and knees stinging, Aziraphale feels relief crash into him not unlike the waves trying to drag him back under. 

Crowley crashes into him not a moment later, long limbs flailing as he hisses, “Shit, shit, sorry. I can’t - shit - “ 

And Aziraphale laughs and laughs, wrapping his arms around Crowley and hauling them both to their feet in the shallows. The tide’s come in enough that water reaches their ankles, and a few groups and families have picked up their belongings to move further up, away from the approaching water. 

Crowley looks dazed, staring at Aziraphale’s mouth. After another minute of Aziraphale’s guffaws, his own lips creep into a - if Aziraphale isn’t being too presumptuous - besotted smile. 

“What’s this then? You really had that good of a time?” 

“No!” Aziraphale howls. “Oh, it was horrible! It hurt, and I couldn’t see anything, and everything was going so fast. It was terrifying! But it doesn’t matter - nothing does!” 

Crowley wraps an arm around Aziraphale waist and cocks an eyebrow at him, smile sliding off suddenly. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean - I mean we went to so much trouble to side with the humans, but we’re still thinking like angels and demons. We’re still thinking that there’s some Bigger Purpose, something that we _have_ to do. What now?” Aziraphale shrugs and smiles brilliantly at a startled, nonplussed Crowley. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. We can just take the world a day at a time like the humans do, and it’ll be frightening, but - but that’s life with no Great Plan!” 

“Hold on now - Hold on.” 

“What?” 

“We’re not meant to be like them.” Crowley waves at the beachgoers in their bathing suits, under umbrellas, tossing balls around. “We may be a piss poor angel and an even shittier demon, but we’re not them.” 

“No,” Aziraphale agrees. “No, we’re not. But neither are trees, or dolphins, or the jellyfish that’s rather close to your ankle.” 

“The what - ?” 

“And they all live on Earth, too, and go about their business - “ 

“Fuck, ow!” 

“So really,” Aziraphale says, bending over to carefully scoop the slimy creature into a pail that had been abandoned by a cranky, nap-deprived three-year-old. “Don’t we have just as much of a right to be here - to breathe and live and die here - as this strange little fellow?”

“Do jellyfish even breathe?” Crowley asks grumpily, scrubbing at the stinging pain left behind by the stupid bugger. “Don’t exactly have mouths. Or gills.” 

“Don’t you see?” Aziraphale asks earnestly, refusing to let the topic go just yet. “Crowley, we chose this. We chose Earth. We chose humans. That means we get the consequences, yes, where everything is terrifying, and we have no orders. We have to deal with uncertainty, now, instead of falling into the roles we were given. But it’s freeing, isn’t it?” 

“How, exactly, is the crushing knowledge that at any moment we could make the wrong choice and fuck everything up - how is that freeing?” 

“Because it doesn’t matter. Crowley, it doesn’t matter what we do. We don’t answer to anyone except ourselves now.” Aziraphale tightens his grip on the pail still in his hand, and with his other he pulls Crowley in so their foreheads are touching. He closes his eyes and somehow, impossibly, he feels his smile stretch wider. “If you’re happy - If we’re happy, or if we’re at least pursuing happiness, then we’re doing what the humans do. We’re doing what we chose to do, what we earned. But there’s no plan, my dear, nothing we ‘should’ do. We can just. Do. Be. Like jellyfish.” 

“Like jellyfish,” Crowley repeats. 

“Humans live with uncertainty everyday. We might not be humans, but we live like them, and like jellyfish, we can live alongside them. We can live with this uncertainty too, can’t we?” 

Crowley leans into where they’re touching. He reaches up to cup Aziraphale’s face and he smiles helplessly at him. “Aziraphale, angel - Can’t say I get it. But whatever. You - loving you - is the only certainty I need. So, if you’re happy, I’m happy.” 

Aziraphale hiccups out one last laugh before shifting just enough to brush their lips together. Crowley stiffens for a sharp, painful three seconds. Then he melts against Aziraphale, grip loosening, his entire body curving closer. 

Crowley clearly “gets it” more than he thinks he does. Aziraphale doesn’t mind waiting for him to fully catch up, though. 

* * *

Footnotes: 

35This, too, was part of Crowley’s preparation of their day. [return to text]

  
36The first that Aziraphale is aware of, at least. Michael has gotten into some strange shenanigans with Hastur and Ligur over the years, and it’s not inconceivable to imagine a similar scene between the three of them. [return to text]


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It looks - Did they add an extension onto it?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows scrunch together. “It’s definitely bigger.” 
> 
> “They painted it orange.” 
> 
> “Well, it’s a rusty brown. Like clay - “ 
> 
> “It’s orange, angel.” 
> 
> It’s definitely orange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all!!! clearly i messed up my posting schedule i had promised chapter one lmao. but here it all is!!!
> 
> once again, i'd like to thank my artist a-boy-named-micah and my beta dazebras <3 this was such a fun experience and i'm extremely lucky to have been matched up with such great folks. thank you both for all of your work on this project with me <3 this was absolutely a passion project for me while working on it, and watching it come to life has been more meaningful to me than i'm willing to admit publicly ; ) 
> 
> thanks as well to everyone involved in making the Good Omens Big Bang as fun as it's been - i've made friends here that i wouldn't have made elsewhere, and i am extremely grateful for this event bringing us together. can't wait to read and see and experience everyone else's stuff <3

Aziraphale insists on bringing the jellyfish home with them. He couches it in statements like, “It’s a metaphor, Crowley,” and “It helped us reach an understanding of our place in the universe, Crowley,” and a bunch of other nonsense, but Crowley knows that Aziraphale just likes having the little bugger to project his issues onto. 

Because Crowley isn’t all that different, he says, “Fine, but only if you get it some company. It’d be pitiful watching only one of them swim around all by its lonesome.” 

Aziraphale gives him the softest, sweetest kiss before saying, “Of course, my dear. It wouldn’t do to have a lonely jellyfish.” 

So, it’s a little over a week later and with two jellyfish in tow when they finally return to London. Before they started their drive, Crowley had offered, “We could stay, you know. You seemed to like it here.” 

“Here?” Aziraphale had looked confused. “Well, perhaps some day. But don’t you think it’d be a little… Tedious? There’s not much to do in a quiet area like this. We hardly saw any restaurants, let alone a bakery worth - No, no. Maybe someday, but for now, I miss my shop.” 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Crowley said, grimacing. “For all we know, Michael and Dagon blew the place up while we were gone.” 

Aziraphale chided him with, “Have some faith. You didn’t think they’d want to stay on Earth either, did you? They seem to like surprising us.” 

“They’re nuisances. And faith? Me?” he scoffed. “Angel, you know better.” 

Aziraphale had smiled and said, “Oh, I do. I always do.” Then he said, “Speaking of the shop and living situations, presumably it will be mostly restored when we return. With the added upper floor of living space.” 

“Yes...? Assuming the nuisances don’t screw it up.” 

“Are you really going to make me ask?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “You could move in. If you wanted to. That’s the whole reason I changed that floor after all.” 

Crowley’s voice had caught in his throat. A breath, then another. Hoarser than he meant for it to come out, he said, “That sounds alright. Probably makes sense, too. My flat’s about two more health violations away from becoming an actual biohazard.” 

“Sorry? When I was last there, your flat was spotless. What in the world happened?” 

Crowley hadn’t wanted to say, “Well, see, when my powers stopped working, I ignored all of the rotting food and plants because I didn’t want to admit that things weren’t okay. And also cleaning up all of it would’ve been disgusting. So things that were already fetid and decomposing have grown only more horrific over a number of weeks in addition to the days we’ve been gone. So, yeah, I’d much rather just scrap the whole lot of it and move in.” 

So he didn’t, because he’d already embarrassed himself enough for the next three decades . He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, squeezed it tightly, and said, “Just haven’t gotten around to cleaning lately, and now I don’t have to. Ready to go?” 

The drive was a little bit longer than the last one. Crowley has no desire to share Aziraphale with the rest of the world again, and the Bentley reads that as, “Let’s drag our feet as much as possible.” Having an entire week of it being just the two of them has been blissful, even with Aziraphale’s pen scratching against paper making it hard to sleep. 

He doesn’t disagree with Aziraphale that living in the South Downs full-time would be boring, but he wouldn’t have minded being bored together. In the end, though, they have another angel and demon to deal with, Aziraphale has his customers, and Crowley wants to grow a new garden at the bookshop. 

He already has plans for how to grow in such a way as to maximize the inconveniencing of customers. Just because he and Aziraphale no longer answer to Heaven and Hell doesn’t mean that Crowley wants their respective thwartings to disappear completely. Aziraphale will huff and nag him, but he’s much too mischievous himself to not enjoy a little competition. 

The shop comes into view, finally, and Crowley says, “It’s still standing, at least.” 

“It looks - Did they add an extension onto it?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows scrunch together. “It’s definitely bigger.” 

“They painted it orange.” 

“Well, it’s a rusty brown. Like clay - “ 

“It’s orange, angel.” 

It’s definitely orange. Crowley’s torn between righteous fury over their audacity and delight that he has an excuse to exterminate their irritating guests. 

“I don’t - “ Aziraphale cocks his head to the side. He admits, “I don’t  _ hate _ it.” 

“But you don’t love it.” 

“I might! Eventually.” 

“I’ll fix it after I kill them,” Crowley assures him. He pats Aziraphale’s hand and lets the Bentley park itself[37]. He’s out of the car before Aziraphale can protest. 

The shop is bigger, orange, and there’s a few more windows than there was before. Crowley glances at them on his way to the door, and he’s halfway between a scoff and furious snort when he registers what he’s seeing in the shop. He pivots, changing direction from the door to one of the windows. He crouches so he doesn’t block the sunlight streaming into the shop, leaving just enough of his face above the sill so he can look in. 

Aziraphale comes up behind him and asks, “What in the world are you doing?” 

“Shh. Look.” 

The inside of the shop has been cleaned up, but it’s bare for the most part. There’s no books or any other decorations, but some shelves have been stood up. They don’t match: some shelves are white plastic, some are cherry wood, some are metal, and their sizes aren’t the same either. A large, circular desk has been installed where the cash register used to be, and a black office chair has been placed behind it. The walls have been painted a pale periwinkle - wait, correction:  _ some _ of the walls have been painted periwinkle. At least of them is a dark gray instead. The floor is a dark hardwood, polished to a bright shine. 

And on that floor, a demon and an angel are sitting together around an open pizza box. They’re nearly in each other’s laps, the way they’re leaning in to each other. 

Michael laughs, a bit of sauce smeared across her face. As they watch, Dagon leans in with a - dare he say it? - sweet smile, carefully reaching out with her free hand to wipe the sauce away with her thumb. Michael continues laughing as Dagon tucks her thumb into her mouth to lick it clean, and Crowley notices, belatedly, that they’re holding hands. 

Dagon’s wearing a dress, and it’s pink. And all of the rot on her face, the gray pallor, the demonic aspects, they’re all gone save a few scaly bits of skin. Michael, too, is looking significantly more human. Her gold freckles have become regular freckles, and she’s wearing a jean jacket that, like her face, has some pizza sauce on it. 

If Crowley didn’t know any better, he’d say that was a pair of normal human women having a date. 

Aziraphale says, “That’s  _ precious. _ Crowley, look at them!”

“I’m the one who told you to look!”

“Yes, but, oh. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” 

“A little fast, don’t you think?” 

“Faster than us,” Aziraphale concedes. “But, well, they have quite a while to grow a history together, don’t they?” 

Crowley supposes so. With Heaven and Hell likely running around like chickens with their heads cut off, those two picked a good time to come down and have a whirlwind romance. They’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other, just like he and Aziraphale did. 

“I’d hate to disturb them - “ 

“I wouldn’t!” Crowley says cheerfully. He straightens, grabs Aziraphale’s hand in his own, and drags him along to go kick the door in. 

“Crowley! Honestly - “ 

Crowley slams the door open, covering whatever Aziraphale was going to say. “Ladies,” he greets as he enters. “You’ve been busy, I see.” 

Dagon flops onto her back, groaning. “You actually came back? I was starting to think you’d piss off permanently.” 

“Is that why you painted the shop orange?” 

“Chip and Joanna from the telly said that burnt orange is a flattering color when used sparingly,” Michael recites. “And with light blue accents, of course.” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale says wryly, shutting the door behind him. “The shop looks. Completely different.” 

Dagon puffs up with pride. “It does, don’t it? Mike picked out the shelves.” 

Michael says, earnestly, “I thought a variety would be nice.” 

“We didn’t know what books to get, so we figured you could deal with that.” 

“Yes, that’s likely for the best. And the upstairs…?” 

“We left that like it was. Nothing was much damaged up there. And you clearly had plans.” Dagon wiggles her eyebrows, immediately bursting into laughter at the way Aziraphale’s face reddens. “Only thing we did was use the kitchen.” 

“We made cookies,” Michael says to Crowley in a low, conspiratorial tone. “Dagon won’t admit it, but she wanted to apologize to Aziraphale again for the shop.” 

“Did you?” Crowley shoots back. 

She shrugs, eyes glinting with amusement. “We both know you’re never going to forgive me. Why bother?” 

Crowley pauses. Shrugs. “Fair ‘nuff.” 

The others keep talking. Michael stands up and helps Dagon to her feet, and they fill Aziraphale in on what they did while they were gone. Crowley, content with Aziraphale’s hand warm in his own, observes them instead.

They’ve relaxed significantly while Aziraphale and he were away. They’re comfortable in their skin, now, in a way that makes Crowley wonder if they were always meant to be down here with them. Or, hell, if they were meant to be down here more than he and Aziraphale were. They’re clearly adapting much quicker than he had thought they would. 

He wonders if that same relaxation can be seen in him. In Aziraphale. If their vacation and conversations about their place in the universe, if the jellyfish has put their respective minds at ease enough that Michael and Dagon are equally surprised by the changes they see. If, maybe, he and Aziraphale look a little less like stardust and a little more like greenery. 

He wouldn’t know. He’s not going to ask. 

Crowley still doesn’t understand what Aziraphale was getting at, at the beach. He doesn’t know what they’re doing now or what’s coming next or what’s going to happen. There’s innumerable unanswered questions still, and Crowley is starting to think some don’t have answers. Their lives are going to be uncertain going forward, as Aziraphale said, just like humans. 

“Oh, the extension is for you two?” he hears Aziraphale say, a strained sort of surprise in his tone. 

Michael responds, “You’re going to need employees if you’re selling books and coffee, especially if you’re serious about the whole writing thing. You’ll need time to devote to your work!” 

“Coffee?” 

“That was my dove’s idea!” Dagon chirps with a sly, sharp grin. “They go together, apparently.“

“They do!” Michael says indignantly. “According to - “ 

“Some random guy on the internet - “

“Dagon, you rascal, you’re the one who showed it to me!” 

“I didn’t actually agree - “ 

Uncertainty aside, whether they’re at the command of Heaven and Hell or God Herself, whether they’re being dragged along by a bunch of waves at the beach, whether they’re being invaded by two eager beings or prepping a large-scale aquarium for two stray coelenterata - 

“What do you lot say to finishing that pizza while Aziraphale tells us about the story he wrote at the beach?” Crowley finds himself saying. “He was real busy while we were away. Yeah, you think I didn’t notice, but I did. I believe I saw something about, ‘jellyfish stings, sharp like his ragged edges-’ “

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s laughing again, his beautiful, perfect face flush with embarrassment. He squeezes Crowley’s hand tighter, and Crowley tries not to melt. 

Well. It might not be so bad to be at the whims of nature and natural forces without a plan if he’s with Aziraphale. He can live with uncertainty as long as Aziraphale’s hand is in his own. 

* * *

Footnotes: 

37Parallel parking is such a chore. The Bentley is much better at it than Crowley. [return to text]


End file.
